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9 




“And there was the Squire looking down at Tom.” 

(See page 48.) 


THE 


PONKATY BRANCH ROAD 


AND OTHER STORIES FOR 
YOUNG PEOPLE 



SOPHIE SWETT 


AUTHOB OF “ CAPTAIN POLLY,” “ FLYING HILL FARM,” 
“THE MATE OF THE MARY ANN,” 

ETC., ETC., ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED BY W. P. BODFISH 


JUft A 1 896 



3 33 


BOSTON 
LOTHKOP PUBLISHING COMPANY 
. 1896 


COPTBIGHT, 1896, 

BY 

Lothbop Publishing Company. 


All rights reserved. 


Typogeapht bt C. J. Petebs & Son, 
Boston. 


CONTENTS. 


THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 

I. Tom has a Plan 9 

II. The “ Old Folks’ ” Kehearsal ... 27 

III. The Squire does not have his Way . 43 

IV. How Tom saw the Centennial .... 59 

V. A Baxter in Ponkaty 77 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 

I. The Minister’s Family 95 

II. The Cottage at Milbury Ill 

III. It all depends on the Boy 121 

IV. In the Old Mill 133 

V. Up-hill Work 144 

VI. Behind the Door 160 

VII. Sam is Puzzled 169 

VIII. An Eventful Night 182 


THE RAVELLED MITTEN. 

I. The Birthday Party 199 

II. The Miser’s Door-stone 215 


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THE 


PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 





THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


CHAPTER L 

TOM HAS A PLAN. 

“ There ain’t enough public spirit in this 
town to set a hen,” grumbled Uncle Jeremy 
Whittaker from his coigne of vantage, the 
sugar barrel in the Ponkaty village store. 
“One don’t want the railroad to come for 
fear he’ll have to set back his garding fence 
a foot or two, and another one is all het up 
because it ain’t agoin’ through his cow paster. 
Says I, let it come if it goes plumb through 
my settin’-room and kerchunk into the meet- 
in’-house ! There’s where I be on the rail- 
road question.” 

“ It ain’t agoin’ no’eres near your settin’- 
room nor the meetin’-house nuther,” quavered 


10 THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 

old Simeon Downs. “It will either strike a 
bee-line from Beersheby Junction across Pur- 
gatory Swamp and Grindall’s medder, or else 
it’ll come up through Skunk Holler and Brim- 
blecom’s paster, and the station will be sot 
right there on the Baxter wood-lot at the 
cross-roads.” 

A boy’s head appeared suddenly above the 
molasses hogshead which stood behind Uncle 
Jeremy’s sugar barrel, — a reddish, round, boy’s 
head, with a pair of alert hazel eyes and a 
decidedly snub nose. 

“ Look out there, Tom Baxter ! ” called Ran- 
kin Judson, the storekeeper. “Do you s’pose 
I hire you to set the place afloat with the 
best New Orleans molasses ? ” 

“ If it should turn out so, the Baxter wood- 
lot would be about the most val’able piece 
of proputty in town,” said Phineas Hicks, the 
postmaster. “ They do say Gran’ma’am Tobey 
is broke of her rest worryin’ for fear her young 
turkeys will be run over, or the hen-house sot 
afire, bein’ right on the aidge of the wood- 
lands.” 


TOM HAS A PLAN. 


11 


“ Come to think on it, ’twas that very piece 
of woodland that they claim old Mr. Baxter 
give a deed on to his son Thomas,” pursued 
Simeon Downs. 

“ I guess that deed wan’t nothin’ but vain 
imagination,” said Uncle Jeremy. “Where 
there’s proputty quarrels, there’s apt to be 
vain imaginations. If there was a deed, why 
wa’n’t it recorded, or why didn’t Thomas 
Baxter have it? The records are right there, 
now, in the court-house to Shawmkeag.” 

“ The records can be burnt up, and they 
was., long o’ the old court-house,” piped old 
Simeon, shrilly triumphant. 

Uncle Jeremy was the village oracle, but the 
group pressed closer around Simeon Downs ; 
— to every soul comes its moment of triumph. 
Uncle Jeremy hitched around on his barrel, 
and inquired of Rankin Judson the price of 
“ aigs ” ; but for once the storekeeper was obliv- 
ious of commercial interests. And as for Tom 
Baxter, he leaned over the counter towards 
Simeon Downs, his freckled face pale, but 
looking as if a live coal burned behind it. 


12 


THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


“That old story ’bout a deed is jist as 
tedious as a last year’s aliuernick,” said Un- 
cle Jeremy contemptuously. “ I don’t believe 
that there ever was no deed ; sounds to me 
like one of them stories that is made up out 
of whole cloth, and all pictured out in the 
story-papers.” 

“ Cyrus Quimby, that was a jestice of the 
peace then, was a witness to that deed,” said 
Simeon Downs ; and his cracked old voice 
seemed suddenly to have grown firmer as he 
found that his grasp on memory did not fail. 
“ Cyrus Quimby and Laban Hinckley it was 
that fetched old Nathan Baxter home from 
singin’ school when he was took with that 
spell. A master hand for singin’ was old 
Nathan, jest as the squire is now; and he used 
to kinder pester ’em to singin’ school, singin’ 
the old pennyr’yal hymns. He’d carry his old 
singin’ books, and make folks sing out of ’em 
whether or no ; and he would sing up so loud 
himself that’t would drownd everybody else. 
That night when the spell took hold of him 
he was singin’ old Balermy, a-keepin’ time, 


TOM HAS A PLAN. 


13 


and thinkin’ he was doin’ the whole busi- 
ness, more’n the singin’-master. Shortness of 
breath ketched him, and a terrible faintness ; 
he wouldn’t let ’em send for a doctor, nor for 
a carriage to fetch him home. He had the 
clear Baxter grit, the old man had. But on 
the way home — as I was sayin’, Cyrus Quimby 
and Laban Hinckley walked home with him — 
on the way home, the spell ketched him agin, 
and he calc’lated he was dyin’. He groaned, 
and took on that he hadn’t done right to his 
son Thomas ; he’d bore him such a grudge 
for marryin’ Adolphus Pomeroy’s daughter — 
there was an old feud between him and Pom- 
eroy — that he’d cut him off without a cent 
in his will.” 

“ They’d got him under the horse-sheds there 
to the old meetin’-house, and Cyrus Quimby 
told him that he could make a codicil to 
his will, or a deed of gift of some of his prop- 
utty to his son Thomas, right then and there. 
Laban Hinckley had a lantern, and Cyrus 
had a pencil, and there was a fly-leaf of the 
old singin’-book for paper. Seein’ he and 


14 THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 

Laban was there for witnesses, it would stand 
the law, so Cyrus said. That deed was wrote 
under them old horse-sheds, by the light of 
Laban Hinckley’s lantern, on a fly-leaf of that 
old singin’-book — a deed of gift to his son 
Thomas — of that whole woodland lot, the 
most valooable proputty that Nathan Baxter 
had, without ’twas the saw-mill ! ” Simeon 
Downs shook a lean fore-finger impressively 
at the group of interested listeners. “ And 
Cyrus Quimby had that deed recorded the 
next day ; but Nathan Baxter he seemed to 
get well, and the Baxter propensity to hold 
on to a grudge riz up and got the upper 
hands of him ag’in. But he never destroyed 
that deed. How do I know ? ” — this was in 
answer to a question asked somewhat sarcas- 
tically by Uncle Jeremy Whittaker who felt 
that his laurels were withering. “ Because 
Laban Hinckley told me that Nathan Baxter 
told him jest before he died. He died of a 
shock that next fall. Laban thought he 
meant to tell him where the deed was, but 
'twas too late. Laban felt some as if he’d 


TOM HAS A PLAN. 


15 


ought to make a stir about it; I expect that 
was one thing that drove Jiim off to Californy. 
You see, he was beholden to Squire Baxter, 
and the squire ain’t jest the man that anybody 
wants to tackle. Besides, Tom Baxter was 
wore out, and discouraged ; he never had the 
Baxter grit anyhow.” Simeon lowered his 
voice, but Thomas Baxter’s son had sharp ears. 

“ It wouldn’t have been no use to try to 
get the woodland; anybody with a grain of 
sense could see that,” said Uncle Jeremy Whit- 
taker. “ If the deed was made, who was a-goin’ 
to prove it ? Cyrus Quimby never knew noth- 
in’ after he fell off the beam in his barn, and 
Laban Hinckley went away off to Californy, 
and nobody ever heard from him afterwards. 
I hope nobody won’t be foolish enough to 
stir up that old deed again ; it’s jest heathen 
mythology, that’s what ’tis.” 

“It’s all fate and foreordination, like every- 
thing else in the world ; some gets proputty, 
and some must go without,” said Absalom 
Kittredge who had drunk himself into the 
poorhouse. 


16 


THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


“It all depends,” said Enoch Filkins, the 
schoolmaster, in his slow, drawling voice, “it 
all depends upon the kind of stuff there is in 
young Tom Baxter.” 

Young Tom Baxter was lighting the lamps 
now, for the early spring twilight was closing 
in ; but he heard, and his heart swelled within 
him. 

“ Tom, are you coming home to supper 
now?” called a girl’s voice. It was a girl of 
fifteen with a thin and eager face. “ I came 
over for a quart of molasses and some peanuts. 
We’re going to have an orgy.” Tom had 
come near her, and she put her lips to his ear. 
“Garry is coming over,” she whispered. Tom 
felt it to be a shock to descend from a Great 
Plan which was developing in his mind, from 
a Burning Resolve which he had made as 
soon as he heard the story of that deed, to a 
peanut taffy orgy in honor of their cousin 
Garafelia. Orgy, by the way, was Garry’s 
name for the festival. Peace was imitating 
Garry’s way of talking. Garry was a nice 
girl enough; but, after all, she was Uncle Wil- 


TOM HAS A PLAN. 


17 


lard’s daughter. Uncle Willard was Squire 
Baxter, the great man of Poiikaty ; he had 
influenced his father to cut off his younger 
son, Tom’s father, without a penny ; he had 
held out no helping hand in his brother’s ill- 
ness and poverty ; every one knew him to be 
hard and grasping. It was Tom’s opinion 
that the deed of gift, which in view of the 
railroad’s coming had become rich in possibil- 
ities, was concealed or had been destroyed 
by him. 

“ The fly-leaf of an old singing-book,” mur- 
mured Tom to himself. Tliey were in the 
street now, and he was holding an umbrella 
over his sister Peace’s head, while his little 
sister Sharly splashed on ahead, defiant of 
mud-puddles in her first rubber-boots. Tom 
stopped suddenly ; he didn’t remember whether 
the fly-leaf had been torn out of the book or 
not. He must go back and ask Simeon Downs. 

“ Tom, why are you stopping? ” asked Peace 
impatiently. “ You are holding the umbrella 
so tliat little rills are running down my 
back.” 


18 THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 

“I must wait; I mustn’t let anybody know,” 
murmured Tom, going on again. 

“ About Garry ? why, of course not ; we never 
do,” said Peace. “ I’m not quite sure about 
that receipt for taffy.” There was a little 
wrinkle of worry between Peace’s brows. “ I 
think that perhaps a little more butter, and 
vanilla instead of lemon” — 

Tom scowled at her dreadfully. 

“ Grandma Peacey was over,” she continued, 
ignoring the scowl. “ Garry is going away 
to school to-morrow. Grandma cried about 
Julius; it’s five years to-day since he went 
away.” 

While Peace chattered, those wonderful pos- 
sibilities that had dawned upon Tom grew 
and grew. He wished that it were some great 
and valiant deed that he had to do ; it might 
prove to be that to “ tackle the Squire,” but 
it would be useless to do that until he could 
find a deed written on the fly-leaf of an old 
singing-book. While the taffy orgy was at 
its height, Tom slipped away. He had but- 
tered tins in a lukewarm way, and shown a 


TOM HAS A PLAN. 


19 


flagrant carelessness in the important matter 
of flavoring; but Peace had not thought he 
would be so rude as to go away. Garry liked 
Tom ; she thought he was uncommonly sat- 
isfactory for a boy. 

There was also something of the flavor of 
stolen fruit about the intercourse between the 
cousins; for it had always been frowned upon 
by the Squire, whose enmity against his 
younger brother and his brother’s wife had 
even extended to their children. They never 
dared to let the Squire see them together. 
Garry’s visits to the little weather-painted cot- 
tage in Barberry Lane were always secret, 
and Grandma Peacey’s (as they always called 
their Grandmother Baxter) were scarcely less 
so; for, though she would go to see “poor 
Tom’s children,” and had never shared in the 
feud against the Pomeroys, Tom’s wife’s fam- 
ily, yet she was a little woman, whose name 
befitted her nature, and she had a dread of her 
son’s frown. As for the Barberry Lane cous- 
ins, they were never known to darken the door 
of the great white house on Butternut Hill. 


20 


TEE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


After all, they got along very well without 
Tom, as Garry said. The Tackaberry boys 
and girls, who lived across the field, came in, 
and they had games and dancing; and Grand- 
ma Pomero}^, who was very old and always 
sat in the chimney-corner, sang to them in 
a thin, but soft and sweet old voice the songs 
of her youth. In the midst of the gayety 
there came a smart rat-a-tat of the ancient 
knocker; and when Jerome Tackaberry opened 
the door, a young man’s voice asked the way 
to the hotel. He had driven from Bathsheba 
Junction with some friends and had missed 
the way. 

“I’ll tell you who they are,” said Jerome 
Tackaberry, with breathless eagerness, peering 
through the window into the rainy darkness 
as the carriage drove away. “They’re the en- 
gineers that are goin’ to survey the road. 
When the railroad’s cornin’ a place begins to 
get lively, I tell you ! ” 

“ What was the young man like ? ” asked 
Garry ; “ his voice sounded familiar.” 

“ Tallish, glasses and side-whiskers, no Pon- 


TOM HAS A FLAN, 


21 


katy in him,” said Jerome Tackaberry con- 
cisely. 

Talk about the coming railroad and the pros- 
pective business of Ponkaty was even more 
exciting than games or dancing or peanut 
taffy. Little Le welly n Tackaberry cherished 
confident hopes that the cars would run over 
the schoolhouse, and bring the circus every 
day; and Grandma Pomeroy said that, if they 
went through the string-bean patch or her 
tansy-bed, she wouldn’t begrudge it, for then 
they should know something about the fash- 
ions, and she shouldn’t be wearing a stand-up 
feather in her bonnet after Eliza Tinkham 
from the Corner said stand-up feathers were 
out of date. 

Garry said suddenly that she must go home ; 
but it was still early and they had one more 
dance, and grandma sang another song to 
wind up the festivities. It was “The Sailor’s 
Return,” a pathetic old song which set forth 
the grief of the returned wanderer when no 
one knew him. 

“ ‘ And looking round the group he cried. 


22 


THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


“ Do none remember me ? ” ’ ” piped Grandma 
Pomeroy’s cracked treble, and Garry astonished 
them all by bursting into tears. 

“ It’s — it’s only because it’s five years to-day 
since Julius went away,” she said; “and that 
young man’s voice, and the song, and all.” 

Tom had slipped away from the party to go 
up to the Squire’s house. He meant to find 
out, if possible, where those old singing-books 
which his grandfather had treasured were kept. 
Of course it was a forlorn hope ; the fly-leaf 
upon which the deed was written had probably 
been carefully torn out, and kept with other 
valuable papers or destroyed. Tom reasoned 
shrewdly that the former course was the one 
likely to have been pursued by the Squire ; 
he was punctilious in observances, and would 
be likely to keep to the letter of the law. 
They talked much about the Squire in the 
circle of choice spirits that voiced the public 
sentiment in the store where Tom worked on 
half-holidays and at intervals between school- 
hours ; and Tom thought he understood his 
character pretty well. 


TOM HAS A PLAN, 


23 


Garry had said that her father and her step- 
mother had gone to the Village Improvement 
lecture; but, as Tom looked in at the sitting- 
room window, he saw that Deacon Amos Pin- 
gree was sitting with Grandma Peacey before 
the fire. The deacon was proverbially slow 
of speech ; and Tom felt, with a sinking heart, 
that he would not soon take leave. 

He saw some old hooks that looked like 
singing-books on the top shelf of the Squire’s 
ancient secretary, and his heart burned within 
him. 

After a little hopeless waiting, he went to 
the kitchen door and presented himself, drip- 
ping and white with eagerness, before Arianna, 
the ancient serving-maid who had been in the 
family when Tom’s father was young. 

“ Sakes alive ! you most give me a turn,” 
cried Arianna; “you look so kind of white and 
peaked, and jest like your father, for all the 
world.” Arianna’s last words were swallowed 
up by the pantry into which she had vanished. 

“ ’ Tain’t as if there hadn’t been wrongs 
enough done to make ghosts walk, if there was 


24 


TEE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


any sncli things ! ” she continued, reappearing 
with a huge pan of doughnuts, half a mince 
pie, and some apple turnovers — the same 
kind, she explained, that she used to make 
for “ that poor lamb Julius.” 

“ I don’t want anything to eat,” protested 
Tom. “I want to see grandma.” But he 
was forced to swallow a cup of tea, a some- 
what difficult exploit, as Arianna meanwhile 
excitedly and affectionately patted him upon 
the back. “ You have to give the deacon a 
little start,” she explained, when Tom had fin- 
ished his tea; “he’s so dretful long-winded.” 

“ Deacon Pingree, I hope that careless Char- 
lissy hain’t set nothin’ afire over to your house, 
but there’s a terrible queer light on the aidge 
of the woods,” she said, opening the sitting- 
room door. 

“It’s nothing but the electric lights at the 
Junction,” said Tom stupidly. But the deacon 
was gone, pulling on his mackintosh as he went. 

Arianna sat down calmly, ran her knitting- 
needle through her little pug of hair, and 
sang, “‘The judgment day is a rollin’ round. 


TOM HAS A PLAN. 


25 


a rollin’ round.’ ” Tom carefully closed tlie 
sitting-room door behind him ; this matter was 
between Grandma Peacey and himself. 

•‘Did you know that grandfather made a 
deed of gift of a tract of woodland to my 
father ? ” he asked. 

Grandma Peacey trembled in all her small 
frame. 

“ He said he had done something for Tom ! 
— it was when he was dying; he tried to tell 
me what it was and there wasn’t time. I 
looked among his papers ; I looked them over 
and over before — before your Uncle Willard 
had them, and there was nothing there. I 
think Laban Hinckley knew something about 
it, but he was afraid of your Uncle Willard. 
Nobody could ever stand up against Willard, 
not even his father.” 

Tom hesitated. He wished to tell his grand- 
mother all that he knew, but her mind had 
weakened with age ; a secret would not be 
safe with her. 

He walked over to the secretary, and looked 
through its glass doors at the books. 


26 


THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


“ You can’t get at those books ; your uncle 
always carries the key with him,” said Grandma 
Peacey. 

Tom felt a desperate impulse to smash the 
glass and reach those old singing-books. But 
perhaps — probably — there was no deed there; 
and he would only arouse his uncle’s suspicions, 
and hinder his further search. 

“Nobody could ever stand up against Wil- 
lard,” repeated Grandma Peacey musingly, as 
she gazed into the fire. 


THE OLD FOLKS' REHEARSAL. 


CHAPTER IL 

THE “OLD folks’” KEHEARSAL. 

The spring came slowly up Ponkaty way, 
and the railroad seemed even more slow in 
coming. The route was still uncertain ; the sur- 
veyors, with their mysterious appliances, were 
as often to be met with in the depths of Pur- 
gatory Swamp as in Brimblecom’s pastures or 
Squire Baxter’s woodland. And they were 
provokingly uncommunicative. It was the 
general complaint that no one could get a 
word with the one who seemed to be the 
leader, the tall young man with whiskers and 
glasses, whose call had interrupted the taffy 
orgy in Barberry Lane. There was no hope 
now that the celebration of Ponkaty’s cen- 
tennial as a town would also celebrate the 
completion of the railroad, but Squire Baxter 
enthusiastically urged on the preparations for 


28 


THE PONEATY BRANCH ROAD. 


the centennial celebration. He said — and the 
saying was echoed by most of the philoso- 
phers who sat in the store — that, if the rail- 
road company had any idea of “backing out,” 
it would influence them against such a pro- 
ceeding to know that Ponkaty was wide awake, 
and meant to be something anyway. 

The third of June was the centennial anni- 
versary; and it was proposed to celebrate it 
in Temple Grove, a beautiful tract of wood- 
land where Ponkaty’s noted camp-meetings 
were held. It was expected that the festivi- 
ties would be like an old-fashioned muster 
and a Fourth of July celebration in one. A 
procession was planned, somewhat after the 
fashion of the “ antiques and horribles ” of a 
city Fourth of July; that idea had originated 
with Squire Baxter, and he was already scour- 
ing Ponkaty and the adjacent towns for the 
most ancient domestic and agricultural imple- 
ments, costumes, and equipages, and for the 
oldest inhabitants to appear in the procession 
with the old curiosities, and display them to 
the best possible advantage. The Squire meant 


THE OLD FOLKS* REHEARSAL. 29 


to have a concert, too, in the grove, an old- 
fashioned “sing,” with old Ezra Loomis’s 
tuning-fork — the very tuning-fork that had 
been used at the first church service in Pon- 
katy — to give the key. They were to sing 
only the old, “ pennyr’yal ” hymns ; the Squire 
had one of the ancient books, “ Perennial 
Hymns,” from whence the name “ pennyr’yal ” 
had been derived. 

The singers were to be David Wasgatt of 
Crow Hill, who was ninety, and whose proud 
boast it was that he had sat in the seats for 
forty years ; Mrs. Bathsheba Day and Mrs. 
Phoebe Quint who claimed to be ninety-two, 
but who openly scorned and denied each 
other’s claim to this great age; and Dr. Fol- 
lansbee, who was thought to be too young, 
being only eighty-one, but who was chosen 
because he could sing. 

There was to be a rehearsal of this choir at 
Squire Baxter’s house. The Squire evidently 
thought it well to begin early; in fact, it had 
been suggested to him that a good many 
rehearsals might be necessary, owing to the 


30 THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 

facts that the rivalry between Mrs. Day and 
Mrs. Quint, beginning with age, had extended 
to music, and each was determined to drown 
the other’s voice, and that David Wasgatt’s 
deafness caused him to continually sing out 
of tune. 

When Tom heard of the rehearsal he had 
an idea. Those old singing-books on the top 
shelf of his uncle’s secretary had haunted him 
day and night; he had revolved in his mind 
countless plans of getting possession of them, 
none of which seemed practicable. He said 
to himself that he meant to come into his 
rights, not skulk into them; but how was it 
possible to employ straightforward methods 
to find what was fraudulently concealed? 

One night he dreamed that the brass claw- 
feet of the old secretary had developed into 
whole brass griffins of extraordinary size; one 
wore his uncle’s high silk hat, and had his 
uncle’s wen upon his brass forehead, and the 
other sang out of tune like old Mr. David 
Wasgatt, but vocally announced that he was 
the lawyer of the Ponkaty Branch Road. It 


TEE OLD FOLKS* REHEARSAL, 31 


was after he dreamed this queer dream that 
Tom decided he must be present at that re- 
hearsal. He could not have explained just 
why the dream should influence him in that 
way; he was a level-headed boy, who knew 
that two and two make four and that a fantas- 
tic or an evil dream means only indigestion ; — 
Peace called them “pound-cake dreams;” but 
it is not always easy, even for the most sen- 
sible people, to tell why things influence them, 
and Tom felt himself beckoned by the brass 
lawyer of the Ponkaty Branch Road. 

No invitations to the rehearsal were given, 
but it was understood that the neighbors were 
to “ drop in ” if they chose to do so. Jerome 
Tackaberry, who blew the organ in the Pon- 
katy church, felt a right to go, by virtue 
of his ofiice; and he also expected that he 
might be needed to play on the old parlor 
organ in the sitting-room at the Squire’s. The 
pedals of that organ were hard to work; and, 
as Jerome explained to Tom, the girls didn’t 
like to tackle it. Garry had forsaken it alto- 
gether since she had a fine new piano in the 


32 THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 

parlor, but Jerome had heard the Squire say 
that he preferred it as an accompaniment to 
church music. ’Titia Parkins, over on Pigeon 
Hill, could play on it, for she had one just as 
heavy; but in the Squire’s organ the wind had 
a way of giving out suddenly, and, as Jerome 
had shrewdly observed, “’Titia Parkins liked 
to show off and didn’t want to be mortified.” 
So he cherished lively hopes of being an active 
participant in the rehearsals for the great cele- 
bration, and Tom listened enviously and lay 
awake nights trying to plan a way to share the 
freedom of the rehearsals with Jerome. 

After all, it was fate — or Providence, just 
as you choose to call it — that found out the 
way. On the day of the first rehearsal Je- 
rome Tackaberry, performing in his father’s 
barn, before a group of youthful spectators, 
the flying trapeze act, for which he was famous, 
had been obliged to turn an extra and un- 
expected somersault to dodge a small tow- 
head whose owner’s reckless enthusiasm had 
drawn it too near to the performer’s heels, 
and had thereby sprained his wrist. 


THE ^^OLD FOLKS* REHEABSAL. 33 


He found that the Squire had depended 
upon him to play the accompaniments upon 
the uncertainly winded old organ, and was 
much disturbed in mind when he appeared at 
the rehearsal with a lame and bandaged wrist. 

A messenger who was despatched in haste 
to Pigeon Hill returned with the graphic 
statement that Miss ’ Titia Parkins was just 
taking her hair out of papers to go to a dance 
at the Corner ; moreover, the young lady had 
candidly avowed that she wouldn’t be seen 
playing on that wheezy, squeaking old thing. 

While the Squire’s wrath was directed against 
Miss ’Titia Parkins, Jerome diplomatically seized 
the moment to say that he knew a fellow who 
could play on that organ like a liouse afire. 
He had never taken any lessons, but he had 
lots of music in him. 

“ Why didn’t you bring him along with 
you, when you knew you couldn’t play ? ” 
demanded the Squire irately. 

Jerome Tackaberry hesitated, surveying the 
toes of his shoes, apparently with new and 
keen interest. 


34 


THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


“ He hasn’t got his hair in curl-papers, has 
he ? ” asked the Squire, seeking to disguise 
his wrathful impatience by weak pleasantry. 

“ No, it isn’t that,” answered Jerome seri- 
ously ; “ but — he’s Tom Baxter.” 

The Squire glanced uneasily around among 
his guests, and a flush mounted to his fore- 
head. He always resented it that his family 
affairs should be matters of public discussion; 
he was especially sensitive in the matter of 
the quarrel with his younger brother, for he 
knew it was the general sentiment in Ponkaty 
that Thomas Baxter had been unjustly treated. 

“ You go and tell him that I want him to 
come and play on the organ,” he said to Je- 
rome, in a peremptory and matter-of-course 
way. “ Music in him ! of course he has,” he 
muttered, as if to himself; “there never w'as 
a Baxter who hadn’t.” 

All around the great sitting-room people 
were exchanging furtive glances, and wonder- 
ing if the millennium were coming with the 
Ponkaty Branch Boad ; there were a few, how- 
ever, who understood the Squire well enough 


THE ''OLD FOLKS REHEAESAL. 35 


to know that all he meant was to have some 
one to play that organ anyway, and not to 
have any one suppose that he couldn’t have 
young Tom Baxter if he wanted him. 

As soon as Jerome Tackaberry had gone on 
his errand, the Squire was seized with a real 
fear lest Tom should not come, and he should 
be mortified in the presence of all those peo- 
ple. That little beggar might have the Baxter 
will ; there was enough af it to go ’round, the 
Squire said to himself, with a grim chuckle. 
The boy’s father had been a weakling ; he 
had taken out of kin ; things would not be as 
they were to-day if it had not been so; in the 
depths of his secret consciousness the Squire 
acknowledged that. But things were quite as 
they should be, he could always lay that 
flattering unction to his soul; it would not be 
fitting that children with Pomeroy blood in 
their veins should inherit his father’s prop- 
erty. Not only had the feud been ancient 
and deep between the two families, but the 
Pomeroys were unambitious and thriftless ; 
what had been gained by sturdy struggle and 


3G THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 

held with honest pride for generations should 
not be squandered by such as they. 

That young Tom had the Baxter look ; the 
Squire almost wished that he had not sent for 
him. He wished he had provided some one 
to play ; there were a dozen girls in the 
neighborhood who could play on that organ, 
if they would. 

The Squire heaved a sigh of relief when 
Jerome Tackaberry arrived, breathless, and 
Tom’s carroty head appeared, towering up 
behind him. 

The Squire and Tom scowled at each other ; 
that was the Baxter way. Moreover, they had 
never spoken to each other in their lives, and 
there was an awkwardness about beginning. 
The Squire’s mind returned complacently to 
the music ; this fellow had no more backbone 
than his father; he had come meekly at his 
first bidding ; he could easily twist him around 
his finger. 

Tom showed an easy mastery of the old or- 
gan, and he was irreproachable in the matter 
of time ; he could play, although he had never 


THE “ OLD FOLKS REHEARSAL. 37 


been taught; there was so much Baxter in 
him, thought the Squire. 

Tom played, and his mind, which had been 
in a tumult, gradually grew calm ; it was 
about all that a fellow could do to keep those 
pedals going. And the Squire made him play 
the accompaniments over and over ; he was 
determined to bring those queer old voices 
into harmony. Mrs. Phoebe Quint persisted 
in singing do-re-mi instead of the words of 
the hymns, and Mrs. Bathsheba Day said she 
was so put out by it that she couldn’t sing ; 
and then they both cried ; and Mr. David 
Wasgatt complained of everybody’s time, and 
Ezra Loomis said that Mr. David Wasgatt 
“flatted.” It was very tiresome, and Tom 
could not even get a chance to see whether 
the books out of which they were singing 
were the ones that he had seen on the top 
shelf of the old secretary. 

The leaves of the book he was using had 
accidentally slipped back, and he had seen his 
grandfather’s name, Nathan Baxter, written 
on the blank page; he had seized a moment 


88 


THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


when the Squire’s back was turned to him to 
look at the fly-leaves in the back, but not one 
was missing, and there was no writing on any. 
Of course a deed would not be left in that 
way ; it was a foolish, cheating hope that had 
beguiled him. Tom’s spirits fell to zero ; and 
he wished he had not come here, like a ser- 
vant, at his uncle’s bidding. A mirror hung 
over the organ, and Grandma Peacey looked 
at his reflection in it with a sympathizing, 
affectionate look that comforted him a little. 
She was trying to relieve the strained rela- 
tions between Mrs. Quint and Mrs. Day ; and 
Tom watched the little comedy in the mirror, 
feeling it a relief in the monotonous repetition 
of a solo in which Mr. David Wasgatt sang 
hopelessly below the pitch. 

When it came to the “ British yoke and 
galling chain,” they all sang with such a will 
that time and tune, differences of opinion, and 
small personal animosities, were all thrown to 
the winds. Old Ezra Loomis flourished his 
tuning-fork with wild enthusiasm ; and his 
voice regained suddenly something of the 


THE OLD FOLKS^*^ REHEARSAL. 39 


power which had made people flock to the Pon- 
katy church to hear him sing. Mr. David Was- 
gatt began to make dancing-school bows to 
Grandma Peacey, and Mrs. Quint and Mrs. 
Day smiled at each other through tears. 

Tom surveyed the lively scene in the mirror 
with a boy’s delight, which almost soothed the 
soreness of his uncle’s presence, when suddenly 
there appeared in the mirror a reflection which 
made his heart stand still. The old organ 
uttered its great squeak of collapse. Tom 
struggled still, with hands and feet, but the 
notes of the “ British Yoke ” were hopelessly 
mixed up ; his eyes were riveted upon the 
mirror. 

The Squire turned, book in hand, and the 
spell was broken. Tom pulled himself to- 
gether like one awakening from a dream, and 
regained control of the pedals and the notes. 
He had a confused idea that the old miracle of 
the handwriting on the wall had been repeated. 
The Squire had faced his choir in his solicitude 
for its correct performance ; and, as he stood 
with his back to the organ, the pages of his 


40 


THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


book were reflected in the mirror. Tom’s 
startled eyes suddenly caught sight of hand- 
writing in the mirror; it was so black and 
distinct that for an instant he fancied that it 
was upon tlie mirror’s surface. Another glance 
showed him that it was a reflection from the 
white inside of the cover of his uncle’s singing- 
book. 

It was not easy to read the writing back- 
wards; it was Tom’s desperate effort to do 
this which had caused the collapse and squeak 
of the organ. It happened that he and Peace 
had once practised reading writing in the look- 
ing-glass for fun, but that had been when they 
were younger. He had been able to read only 
a few words, but they had been enough to con- 
vince him that this was the deed of gift written 
by his grandfather under the old horse-sheds 
at the church by the light of Laban Hinckley’s 
lantern ! It had been written, not on a fly-leaf, 
but on the inside of tlie cover ; and the Squire 
had allowed it to remain there, either because 
he had considered it of no consequence, or be- 
cause it was a salve to his conscience, an 


THE OLD FOLKS^** REHEARSAL. 41 


answer to any possible future accusations, that 
he had never concealed it. 

Tom played with new spirit and vigor. The 
Squire was conscious of a queer little thrill 
of family pride in the “ young beggar’s ” skill ; 
but Tom did not for one moment lose sight 
of that singing-book in his uncle’s hand. 

Refreshments were served in the dining-room 
when the rehearsal was over; the fragrance 
of Arianna’s coffee was beguiling, and the 
Squire with gruff cordiality urged Tom to 
stay. Tom went into the dining-room with 
his grandmother ; to gentle little Grandmother 
Peacey it really seemed as if the railroad were 
bringing the millennium. But Tom felt that 
to eat a mouthful would choke him. He 
slipped away from his grandmother and from 
Arianna’s assiduous attentions ; back into the 
sittinor-room he stole, when he was sure 
that he was unobserved. The singing-books 
were scattered about on the organ, on the 
table, on the old secretary. Hark! some one 
was coming. Tom’s heart beat like a trip- 
hammer; but he seized the book — it had a 


42 


THE PONKATT BRANCH ROAD. 


glazed cover — and tore off the under side 
of the cover, slipped it under his jacket, and 
stole softly out at the front door. 

He ran as if he were pursued ; he was 
carrying to his mother relief from the grind 
of poverty, and from the rankling injustice 
she had borne so long ; he was carrying a 
future for Peace and Sharly and himself. 

It was not until he had almost reached Bar- 
berry Lane that he drew the book-cover out 
from beneath his jacket, and looked at it in 
the bright moonlight — a blank surface ! He 
had torn off the wrong cover. There must 
have been two covers that were glazed. 

His foolish haste, a miserable little mistake, 
had destroyed his great opportunity. 

His first impulse was to rush wildly back, 
but a second thought convinced him that it 
would be useless. He stood still, overwhelmed 
by his defeat, while, wafted on the breeze, 
came once more to his ears the thrilling 
strains of the “British yoke and galling 
chain.” The choir was singing in friendly 
unison on its homeward way. 


THE SQUIRE DOES NOT HAVE HIS lIMy. 43 


CHAPTER III. 

THE SQUIRE DOES NOT HAVE HIS WAY. 

Through Purgatory Swamp and across 
Grindall’s meadow was to be the route of 
the Ponkaty Branch Road, after all ; that 
was the report that was flying about the town, 
and the surveyors seemed to have settled upon 
Purgatory Swamp as their base of operations. 
For once Squire Baxter’s proverbial luck 
seemed to have deserted him ; for this route 
gave his woodland a wide berth, and set the 
station far from any of his possessions. 

Many people were wondering “ how the 
Squire would take it; ” but Uncle Jeremy Whit- 
taker was of the opinion that “it was the 
main p’int that the railroad was cornin’ any- 
how, and Squire Baxter had brains enough 
to see an advantage, even if it didn’t chuck 
him under the chin.” 


44 


THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


Tom Baxter went down to Purgatory 
Swamp, led by a curiosity to see what was 
going on, as soon as he heard that the route 
was fixed upon. He went through Grindall’s 
meadow — walking along on the top of the 
stone wall, although the stones were insecure, 
and the newly tasselled alders switched him 
in the face — just because he was a boy; and 
whistling for the same reason, although he 
was troubled and perplexed. Just before him 
in the meadow he saw the flutter of a dark 
blue cotton dress, and a blue-and-green plaid 
shawl, which he knew costumed the gaunt 
form of Arianna. 

Tom had not seen Arianna since he had 
fled from her coffee and cream-pie on the 
night of the rehearsal. He felt an impulse 
to overtake her, and try to discover whether 
the Squire had expressed any suspicions or con- 
jectures about the torn singing-book. When 
the Squire was wrathful, no one was more 
likely to know it than Arianna. Jerome 
Tackaberry’s sprained wrist had been well in 
time for the second rehearsal, and Tom had 



“ Thoroughwort is dretful good for a Cold,” said 
Arianna. 





THE SQUIRE DOES NOT HAVE HIS WAY. 45 

no excuse for going. If he could have gone, 
it would have been useless, he felt, since the 
torn cover would have put his uncle upon 
his guard. 

Tom feared that he was not naturally a 
diplomat. He wasted time trying to com- 
pose leading questions which should draw out 
all Arianna’s information, without betraying 
his intense interest in the old singing-books ; 
by that time Arianna had covered the ground 
in such an astonishing way that he did not 
overtake her until she had reached the little 
log camp on the edge of the swamp, where 
the surveyors were quartered. She was talk- 
ing with one of the young men when he came 
up; it was the tall young man with glasses, 
whose voice had thrilled Garry's heart with 
vague associations. 

Tom was within hearing, while yet the trees 
screened him from sight ; and he heard Arianna 
say, in the plaintive, high-keyed voice that, 
with her, signified deep feeling : — 

“ Thorough wort is dretful good for a cold, 
and there’s some that it ’pears to agree with 


46 THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


pertickerler. I noticed, to meet’n Sunday, 
that you had a real hackin’ cough.” She had 
drawn a bottle of thoroughwort tea from her 
basket, and was pressing it upon the young 
man. “And boys — young folks, I mean — 
are so apt to take off their flannels too early 
in the spring, pertickerlerly stockin’s, and bein’ 
damp down here on the aidge of the swamp, 
anyhow, I kind of thought ” — Arianna had 
produced some stockings of her own knitting, 
soft and warm. 

Tom wanted to laugh outright ; it was just 
like Arianna, she was always wanting to cod- 
dle somebody. She probably had her basket 
full of goodies now for those shiftless Ful- 
kersons down by the pond. The Squire stood 
in awe of Arianna, and his wife was too glad 
to have all the domestic care and responsibil- 
ity taken off her to interfere with her. But 
Tom wondered, with a little mortification, what 
she would make this city young man think 
of Ponkaty folks, with her blue yarn stock- 
ings and her thoroughwort tea. 

Tom saw him flush under his bronzed skin. 


THE SQUIRE DOES NOT HAVE HIS WAY. 47 

and hoped he wasn’t going to be angry and 
hurt Arianna’s feelings. She seemed to have 
asked him something about the color of his 
skin; for Tom heard him say that the trade 
winds had bronzed him, and yellow fever in 
a Calcutta hospital had finished up his com- 
plexion. Tlie same fever had weakened his 
eyes, he explained, so that he was obliged 
to wear colored glasses. 

Arianna seemed to be uttering little high- 
keyed ejaculations of sympathy; the leaves 
rustled so that Tom did not distinctly hear 
what she said. He realized suddenly that 
he was listening to what was not meant for 
his ears, and moved hastily and noiselessly 
away. He went out through a narrow woods- 
road into the highway, and waited beside the 
bars for Arianna to come out. He thought 
he would like to have a little talk with that 
affable young surveyor. 

Arianna came along the road and through 
the bars which he had let down for her with- 
out once looking at him. She was wiping 
her eyes; but her face was beaming, and she 


48 


THE PONKATT BEANCH EOAB. 


walked as if on air. She was crying about the 
dangers the young man had passed, and happy 
because she had carried him blue yarn stockings 
and thoroughwort tea, Tom thought absently. 
Perhaps, if he had not been so absorbed in his 
own affairs, he would have considered the mat- 
ter a little more deeply. But Peace said Tom 
never was very good at putting two and two 
together. She thought it was his blunt nose. 

“ Don’t put up those bars ! ” cried a sharp 
voice; and there was the Squire looking down 
at Tom from his old roan horse, Cyclops. The 
roan was half-blind and hard-bitted, but the 
Squire would ride no other horse ; he was 
fond of animals — they were not so apt to 
oppose his will as were human beings. 

Who was not going to Purgatory Swamp 
to-day? Tom turned homeward reluctantly. 
On his way through the woods-road the Squire 
turned suddenly and looked at Tom. He had 
scarcely been conscious of Tom’s existence un- 
til the night of the rehearsal. He had restored 
the singing-books to their place on the top 
shelf of the ancient secretary himself. 


THE SQUIRE DOES NOT HAVE HIS WAT. 49 

He always took care of those books him- 
self, and carried the key of the secretary about 
with him. There were several ancient and 
curious volumes locked up there. He had 
never admitted, even to himself, that the old 
deed written on a book-cover could have any 
significance or value ; he had been directed 
to it by his father’s gestures and half co- 
herent words when he was dying (he had 
been quicker of perception than his mother) ; 
but a dying man’s mind was weak. His 
father had yielded to the impulse to forgive 
his younger son once before when he had 
thought he was dying, and had made that 
absurd deed, only to repent of it as soon as 
he recovered. No one could say that the 
deed had ever been concealed; there it was 
on the blank inside cover of the old singing- 
book. 

It was an old story now ; of the witnesses, 
one was a wreck mentally ; where the other 
was no one knew. There was no one to 
push the claim, if it could be proven to be a 
legal one. But as Squire Baxter thought of 


50 


THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


these things he turned in his saddle, and looked 
at his nephew Tom. The boy had a strong 
face — a Baxter face ; he wished that his son 
Julius had looked like that. He shook off the 
memory of Julius’s face with a pang the next 
moment; he never allowed himself to think 
of his son. 

It was not worth the while to think of that 
little beggar Tom either; he would probably 
turn out a milksop like his father — or clear 
Pomeroy ; he had a snub nose in his Baxter 
face, — the Pomeroy nose. 

So the Squire rode on to Purgatory Swamp, 
his mind filled with the determination to bend 
things to his will. It had so happened to him 
in life, that he seldom failed to bend things to 
his will. 

Arianna had gone her way with an empty 
basket and a full heart; and the young man 
remained standing as she had left him at the 
door of the log camp, when the crackling of 
twigs under the horse’s hoofs aroused him from 
reverie. 

The Squire scowled at him as he dismounted 


THE SQUIRE DOES NOT HAVE HIS WAy\ 51 

— that was inevitable ; but he smiled after- 
wards, shrewd gray eyes and all, and held out 
his hand with an appearance of frank cordiality. 
He was a small man, and his back was bowed. 
Oddly enough, his bowed back seemed to con- 
tribute like his strong, square chin to the ag- 
gressiveness of his appearance. 

The younger man towered above him with 
an effect of strength and agility and an air 
of self -poise. With the eyes hidden, the most 
expressive face is baffling. The Squire had an 
uneasy sense of possible pitfalls in his way 
more dangerous than those of Purgatory 
Swamp. The idea suggested his first remark. 

“ Expensive work to run a railroad through 
this swamp.” 

“It will skirt the swamp on the eastern 
side ; very little filling-in will be necessary,” 
answered the young engineer, with polite def- 
initeness. “ The selection of this route seems 
to remove some difficulties,” he added, averting 
his face from the Squire with the air of criti- 
cally surveying an imaginary railroad-track 
from the swamp across the meadow. 


52 


THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


The gleam in the Squire’s shrewd gray eyes 
grew into an intense spark. 

‘‘ The more direct route would be through the 
hollow and those level pasture lands, and thence 
through my woodlands to the centre of town,” 
he answered. “They’re my woodlands; I don’t 
disguise the fact that I have an axe to grind.” 
Tlie Squire said this lightly, with a laugh ; 
but the next moment he laid his hand upon 
the young man’s shoulder. “ And I’m willing 
to pay for grinding it,” he said impressively. 

The young engineer flushed, and then grew 
so white that the bronzing upon his skin had 
a curious mask-like effect. 

“ The decision rests with you, I suppose,” said 
the Squire slowly. In his narrow walk of life 
it had never happened to him to have reason to 
doubt his purchasing power, and he did not 
doubt it now. 

“ I have not absolute authority,” said the 
young man, speaking as if with difliculty. 
“The opinion of my associate McPhail would 
have as much weight as mine.” 

“ I will make it to your advantage — greatly 


THE SQUIRE DOES NOT HAVE IIIS WAY. 53 

to your advantage — to have the railroad come 
through my laud.” The Squire’s voice was 
thin and strained with eagerness, and his hold 
upon the young man’s shoulder was a clutch. 
“ It is not so much for the money in my pocket 
as it is to have the town grow up on the land 
that has been in my family for generations. 
I — I’ll make it worth your while ! ” 

The engineer kept his face averted ; he 
seemed trying weakly to slip away, but the 
strong clutch held him. 

“ I’m an old man,” pursued the Squire, his 
voice weakening; “an old man, and a disap- 
pointed one. I have no son to hear my 
name ” — 

The young man turned suddenly. With his 
head thrown hack, his tall strength contrasted 
still more strikingly with the bowed weakness 
of the old man. The weakness seemed to 
strike him; for the ring of scorn in his voice, 
when he began to speak, changed suddenly to 
a pitying softness. 

“ i am employed by the railroad company ; 
its interests are mine,” he said. “ If you had 


54 


PONKATY BBANCH ItOAJ). 


a son, would you like to believe him capable 
of accepting a bribe ? 

“ I should like to believe him capable of 
putting an honest dollar in his pocket,” said 
the Squire testily. A certain reddish gleam 
came into his eyes, with which those who 
knew him were well acquainted ; but he con- 
trolled himself. 

“ Come, come ! you and I are men of the 
world,” he said easily. “We know how 
things go ; the railroad company is looking 
out for its own advantage; and if you and I 
don’t look out for our own, nobody else will. 
How much difference does it make to the 
company, anyway ? while to me ” — 

The Squire’s voice, husky with feeling, evi- 
dently moved the young man. 

“ A town is not always built up with refer- 
ence to the location of the railroad,” he said. 

“It will be in this case ; you know it as 
well as I do,” rejoined the Squire eagerly. 
“Ponkaty is all ready for a start — what they 
call a boom nowadays; the railroad is going 
to give it. Building will begin at the rail- 


THE SQUIRE DOES NOT HAVE HIS WAT. 55 

road ; there will be the centre of the town.” 
He shook a lean forefinger dramatically to- 
wards his woodland; his face was alight with 
something like the fire of youth. 

“ That route would be expensive,” objected 
the young man ; “ there are rocks to be 

blasted ; the grading below and above the 
Hollow would cost a good deal.” 

“ What’s a little cost more or less to a 
great company ? ” said the old man contempt- 
uously. “Of course, I could go directly to 
the company ” — 

“ It would be the better way,” said the 
young man quietly. 

“But they’re difficult to deal with — those 
great companies. Go to the man you can pay 
when you want anything done ; that’s my 
motto.” 

The young man winced ; it was evident 
tliat the Squire had thought him only tem- 
porizing. 

“You must understand that my honest ser- 
vice belongs to the railroad company, and that 
I can accept pay only for that.” He spoke 


56 


PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


in a gentle explanatory way as if to a child, 
and yet with a hopeless cadence in his voice ; 
it does not take long to learn how hopeless 
is the deafness of the inner ear. 

“You are a fool! ” shouted the Squire, and 
the reddish gleam in his small eyes seemed 
to shoot forth sparks. “ You mean to say that 
the railroad is going to leave me out in the 
cold, and the fact that I and my ancestors 
have made Ponkaty what it is doesn’t count?” 

“ That would be a matter for the railroad 
company to consider,” said the young man 
quietly. The Squire repeated his very un- 
complimentary opinion of the young engineer, 
and a still more uncomplimentary one of 
railroad companies. He mounted his horse 
hastily; he knew that he could not trust 
himself much longer with that imperturbable 
young jackanapes. 

“I’d have you know, sir,, that I shall have 
my way about this thing ! ” he called from 
his saddle. “ I do have my way pretty much 
in Ponkaty, and if you attempt to put any 
hindrances in my pa|ih ” 


THE SQUIRE DOES NOT HAVE HIS WAY. 57 

The young man bowed gravely in a non- 
committal, way which exasperated the Squire. 

“ You’ve got a will of your own, haven’t 
you?” he roared; “you young jackass!” 

The young man smiled a little, — a flitting 
smile, which did not seem to relax the tense 
muscles of his face. “Yes; but it doesn’t 
come into this matter,” he said. 

He had taken off his hat, and as the Squire 
looked back at him through a tangle of foli- 
age a sudden idea seemed to strike the old 
man. 

“Not so old as that,” he murmured; “not 
so old, — if he is alive, — and with more sense 
by this time, or he couldn’t be my son I ” 

The old roan brought up against the bars 
while the Squire was deep in reflection, — that 
young rascal Tom had probably put them up 
again just to annoy him. As he prepared 
heavily to dismount, a cheerful voice called 
to him to wait. A young man was coming 
along the road, an athletic fellow, who walked 
with a peculiarly springing step ; he was strik- 
ingly fair of complexion, and his face was 


58 


PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


somewhat effeminate in spite of his size and 
muscle. This was McPhail, whom that whis- 
kered popinjay had called his “ associate.” The 
Squire remembered to have heard that he was 
a nephew of the president of the road. He 
had thought that might make matters more 
difficult. But, as he gazed down upon the 
newcomer as the young man let down the 
bars, he made up his mind to try his purchas- 
ing power here. 

“He doesn’t look like a fool,” was what 
the Squire said to himself. 


UOW TOM SAW THE CENTENNIAL. 59 


CHAPTER IV. 

HOW TOM SAW THE CENTENNIAL. 

The tall and whiskered young surveyor — 
Ferguson, they called him — was pushing mat- 
ters with a will. Already there were gangs 
of laborers at work upon the grading of the 
road-bed. There had come to be a general 
satisfaction with the route, as, on the whole, 
the most direct and central. Purgatory Swamp 
was beginning, if not exactly to blossom like 
the rose, to be a much less unsightly and un- 
wholesome feature of the landscape ; its owners 
were to drain and fill in the land; and the 
county commissioners were preparing to carry 
the highway through there. Everything seemed 
to be arranged for the best interests of the 
town; people were beginning to say openly 
that it would do no harm for Squire Baxter 
to find out that he didn’t own Ponkaty. Then, 


60 


PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


suddenly, orders came from tlie railroad com- 
pany that the route was to be changed ! 
Through Skunk Hollow, expensive grading or 
not, the tracks were to be laid, and through 
the Baxter woodlands ! 

The work done on the Swamp route had 
been considerable, and the change involved 
delay and useless expense. 

Young Ferguson went about with his face 
set rigidly, and had little to say. McPhail 
had gone away a few days before the new 
orders came. He needed a vacation, he said. 
He had reported at the company’s office, and 
a substitute had been sent to Ponkaty. Fer- 
guson understood perfectly that this was Squire 
Baxter’s triumph, and that the Squire’s money 
was in McPhail’s pocket. He had not known 
his colaborer for long, but he was not sur- 
prised. 

McPhail was a good fellow, and he meant 
to have a good time ; he didn’t especially mean 
anything else. It is so rarely that any one 
means to do an evil thing! Ferguson under- 
stood ; he had been familiar all his life with the 


HOW TOM SAW THE CENTENNIAL. 61 


lack of that moral perception which Arianna 
called “a realizin’ sense.” 

After he had gone about with that rigid face 
for a day, and lain awake for a night on his 
bed of hemlock boughs in the camp, looking 
up through the smoke-hole to the far distant 
skies, Ferguson wrote to the directors explain- 
ing the matter. 

Two of the directors came to Ponkaty in 
haste. They shook their heads, and said that 
it was a bad business. McPhail was the 
favorite nephew of the president of the road; 
and the president had gone abroad for his 
health. He was in a critical condition, and it 
would not do to have the matter come to his 
ears at present. Moreover, Squire Baxter was 
a rich man, and of influence in the county ; it 
would be for the interest of the road to avoid 
a public scandal. 

So Purgatory Swamp was once more aban- 
doned to the frogs and muskrats and the will- 
o’-the wisps that haunted it by night ; the engi- 
neer’s log cabin was moved bodily to Skunk 
Hollow. The Squire had carried the day. 


62 


PONKATY branch: ROAD. 


Of the village oracles, none were satisfied, 
unless it might be Uncle Jeremy Whittaker, 
who was willing to have even his own “gard- 
ing sass ” run over, if the railroad would only 
come. 

Young Tom Baxter was tantalized more 
cruelly than ever by a hope that seemed so 
near and yet was so unattainable. There was 
poverty in the little house in Barberry Lane ; 
his mother was growing paler every day with 
her over-burden of work and care. She worked 
at dressmaking and tailoring, and anything 
that she could find to do. She was wor- 
ried now lest the railroad should bring new 
shops and new fashions that would throw her 
out of work. Tom was growing a big fellow; 
he was shooting up like Jack’s Beanstalk this 
summer, and he was very strong; but he felt 
as if he hated his very brawn and muscle since 
it would do so little to help his mother. He 
was beginning to hate his slow wits, too, that 
would not show him the way to rescue their 
rightful inheritance from the Squire’s clutches. 
He worked at all the “ jobs ” he could find, but 


HOW TOM SAW THE CENTENNIAL. 63 

boys were more plentiful than jobs in Ponkaty. 
It began to look as if he must ask his uncle 
for a situation in his sawmill before long. That 
would be a galling necessity ; he had not men- 
tioned it to his mother, whose heart was set 
upon having him go to the Byfield Academy. 

He had gone so far as to consult Law3^er 
Skimpole about the deed ; that was just after 
it was settled that the railroad’s route was to 
be through the Baxter woodlands. The lawyer 
had been inclined to make light of the matter 
at first. He said there had been some story 
about a deed of gift years ago ; it was “ ancient 
history” now. Still, if Tom had the deed in 
his possession there might be something to 
talk about. 

The result of this interview with the lawyer 
was that Tom determined to enlist Arianna 
in his service, and make another effort to get 
possession of that ancient hymn-book which 
had the deed written upon its cover. 

He went boldly up to Butternut Hill on a 
June afternoon. Garry had come home for the 
summer vacation full of what Tom somewhat 


64 


PONKATY BliANCH ROAD. 


scornfully regarded as “ freaks ” and “ fads,” 
though Peace thought them most delightful 
new ideas. Garry was already teaching Peace 
to take photographs, and Peace talked as if 
dark closets and “developing” were the most 
important things in life. She had practical 
ideas also. She said that Ponkaty, if it grew 
as people expected it would, now that the 
railroad was coming, would soon need a pho- 
tographer, and it was just the business for a 
woman. Garry had lent her a small camera; 
and she was photographing everything, from 
Tom’s tiny terrier Jupiter — who did not take 
it in good part, and howled piteously at sight 
of the camera — to the great tent that was 
being erected for the centennial celebration. 

Here was Garry on the lawn photographing 
the old summer-house — and Tom had hoped 
to steal around to the back door and see Ari- 
anna unobserved. It was Tom’s opinion, just 
then, that girls and photography were both a 
nuisance. 

“ Oh, do come here, Tom, just for a minute 
and let me take you ! ” called Garry. “ Every 


HOW TOM SAW THE CENTENNIAL. 65 

one has gone down to the tent except grandma 
and me. Grandma is up in her room. Do 
listen, Tom ! ” 

“ British yoke and galling chain ” came float- 
ing to their ears in Grandma Peacey’s shrilly 
sweet, quavering old treble. 

“ Those old tunes are getting to be a craze, 
Tom. I heard father say he was going to send 
the old books to the Junction to be rebound, 
they’re getting so worn out.” 

“I — I would like to see those old books,” 
said Tom, his heart almost bursting. 

“They’re in the old secretary — if father 
hasn’t sent them away. Go and see,” said 
Garry carelessly, loath to leave her photograph- 
ing. 

Tom went in. His opportunity had come ! 
No scruples should hinder him now ! He was 
prepared to burst locks, break glass, do an}^- 
thing, to come to his own. 

The books were gone! — gone to the Junc- 
tion to be rebound; that precious cover might 
even now be ground up at the paper-mill I 

“ Tom I Tom ! where are you going in such 


PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


a huny ? O Tom, I wanted to take you ! ” 
wailed Garry. 

Tom was going to the bookstore at the 
Junction upon the chance that it might not 
yet be too late to rescue the cover of “Per- 
ennial Hymns.’’ 

It was fifteen miles to the Junction. After 
he had walked seven, “across lots,” he over- 
took Eli Stebbins, who was going to the Junc- 
tion to get his mowing-machine repaired, and 
Eli gave him a lift. Eli jogged along comfort- 
ably, and gossiped lightly, while Tom’s brain 
was in a whirl. It was maddening to remember 
that the deed had been almost within his grasp, 
and he had failed to secure it. He was dull 
of wit; it must all be due to his blunt nose, 
as Peace said. 

He jumped ofE the wagon, and ran for the 
last two or three miles. 

After all, the bookseller had received no 
books to be rebound. Tom asked him boldly ; 
he did not care if the Squire found it out. 
He meant to go to him and denounce the fraud, 
and demand his rightful inheritance. 


BOW TOM SAW THE CENTENNIAL. 67 


He scorned to wait for the slow-going Eli. 
Nevertheless, Eli overtook him ; for he had the 
sad heart that tires in a mile, and they did 
not reach home until nearly midnight. 

Peace was sitting up for him, and had kept 
something hot on the stove — Peace knew how 
to be a sister. But she would keep talking. 
Tom thought wearily that perhaps girls had 
to. She said that Garry had come down that 
evening; and she recounted innumerable things 
that Garry had “ taken,” and that she meant 
to “ take.” 

“ Garry said you came up and went into the 
house. I didn’t think you would ever go 
into that house, Tom, unless you were sent 
for, as you were to the rehearsal. Garry said 
that the old singing-hooks that you wanted 
to see were up in Grandma Peacey’s room, 
and she was singing out of them all by her- 
self. Isn’t it too funny the craze that every- 
body has for those old hymns? Garry said 
her father couldn’t get a chance to have them 
rebound, they were in such demand.” 

Tom had jumped up and seized his cap. 


68 


PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


The books were in Grandma Peacey’s room I 
if he could by any means awake her without 
arousing the household — “ Garry said her 
father had taken the books down to the tent 
now. They’re going to have a rehearsal there 
to-morrow ; no admittance except to the choir. 
Tom, what is the matter ? What do you want 
of those old books ? ” 

Peace spoke impatiently; she thought Tom 
was behaving very queerly lately. Nobody knew 
what in the world he had been to the Junction 
for ; but Tom was apt to be provokingly close- 
mouthed. 

Tom went up-stairs to bed silently, heavily. 
Peace heard him stumble up two or three 
stairs, and thought affectionately what a good, 
stupid fellow he was. He took things haid 
too, and worried about them. “ Tom, don’t 
let things trouble you,” she called after him 
softly, so that her mother should not hear; 
“ Pm going to take care of the family with 
my photography ! ” 

“ Girls think such a lot of themselves,” 
grumbled Tom. Yet Peace was “ considerable 


HOW TOM SAW THE CENTENNIAL. 69 

of a girl,’’ lie said to himself, before she be- 
gan to “ take ” things. 

Ponkaty was early astir on its centennial 
morning. You would have thought to hear 
people talk that a town a hundred years old 
was as great a marvel as the “ one-horse shay.” 

“ Little of all we cherish here 
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year,” 

Mr. Holmes declares ; but Ponkaty had awak- 
ened, and with a railroad all its own rapidly near- 
ing completion. There were sleepy towns near 
Ponkaty that were a hundred and more, and 
had never thought, as their inhabitants said, 
of making a fuss about it ; but it was between 
planting and haying, and they didn’t allow 
their mild scorn of Ponkaty’s airs to prevent 
them from having a good time. Throngs of 
people poured into Ponkaty by every road, 
before the sunrise bells had ceased to ring, to 
see the antique procession. The great tent, — 
people had been inclined to laugh because 
Squire Baxter would have so big a one, — where 
there were to be speech-making, and a collation, 
and the old folks’ “sing,” was speedily filled. 


70 


PONKATY BEANCH ROAD. 


This day was to be Tom Baxter’s Oppor- 
tunity ; it was spelled with a big O in his 
mind. If he did not sueceed to-day he would 
denounce his uncle ; he would cry aloud their 
wrongs. But he knew in his heart that the 
result would be what Lawyer Skimpole pre- 
dicted, — without the deed in his possession 
the Squire was “ too big a man to fight.” 

The books were piled upon a table on the 
platform. Nearest the platform were the re- 
served seats for the worthies of Ponkaty and 
the adjoining towns; boys were not allowed 
within those sacred precincts — certainly not 
Tom Baxter. But Tom edged up as near to 
the platform as he could, and all through the 
long speeches he kept his eyes riveted on 
those books. There were two with glazed 
covers; that was why he had made that heart- 
breaking blunder. The torn cover made it 
easy to distinguish the right one now. It 
was an older book also ; it was the only 
copy of the “Perennial Hymns,” the oldest 
singing-book of all. 

When the books were in the hands of the 


HOW TOM SAW THE CENTENNIAL, 71 

choir, Tom still kept his eye on them. He 
would not allow himself to be carried away 
by the tide of enthusiasm that swept over the 
audience when the old people in their an- 
cient costumes, with their ancient, quavering 
voices, sang the songs that they had first 
sung with young voices when all was fresh 
and new. The young people laughed till 
they cried; and the old people laughed too, 
although their tears came first. 

Grandma Peacey sang “Come my beloved, 
haste away;” and a pretty pink color came 
into her cheeks, and Tom thought he had not 
seen her look so happy since Julius went 
away. Mrs. Phoebe Quint patted Mrs Bath- 
sheba Day, and called her “ dear,” and Mrs. 
Quint handed Mrs. Day her smelling-salts, 
and Mr. David Wasgatt “flatted” as much 
as he liked, and every one thought it was 
beautiful. 

As soon as the “ sing ” was over, the audi- 
ence broke up into little groups, the seats 
were piled away, and the more social part of 
the festivities began. The queer old house- 


72 


PONKATY BBANCH ROAD. 


hold and farm implements that had been in 
the procession were on exhibition. There were 
carding and spinning and weaving and churn- 
ing and threshing and cheese-making at one 
side of the tent, while at the other the long 
tables were being spread with toothsome old- 
fashioned dainties. 

But Tom hovered near the platform, and 
kept his eye on the old books. His uncle 
was on the platform still ; he was showing 
the “ Perennial Hymns ” to a clergyman from 
the Junction. Tom heard him say that the 
book was valuable because there were few 
copies in existence. 

He laid the book upon the table, and turned 
away. Tom had one foot upon the platform ; 
he was glad to take what belonged to him 
boldly, like that ; it did not seem so sneak- 
ing. “ Tom Baxter ! ” called one of the Tack- 
aberry girls shrilly, “Viola Brimblecom wants 
you to come and help her with her candle- 
moulds ; the candles wouldn’t harden in the 
ice, and the fat is running all over every- 
thing ! ” 


HOW TOM SAW THE CENTENNIAL. 73 


Tom stepped back ; the Squire turned ' at 
that moment, scowling at Tom, — but mildly, 
because his mood was joyful, — and took up 
“Perennial Hymns” again; the Junction 
clergyman wished to show it to a friend. 

Tom looked back as he went mechanically 
to the help of distressed Viola Brimblecom. 
Peace and Garry were together near the plat- 
form, and the Squire saw them together, and 
did not even scowl ; he seemed to feel that 
a general amnesty should be extended for this 
day. Those foolish girls, Tom saw, had their 
cameras and were taking things ; sometimes a 
fellow did wish that his sister would be a little 
less frivolous. 

He meant to go back as soon as the Squire 
had put those books on the table again; noth- 
ing now should hinder him from gaining pos- 
session of that cover — nothing. 

The tallow difficulty was soon adjusted; 
then Grandma Peacey wanted Tom to help 
Mrs. Loomis with her carding, and there be- 
gan to be the innumerable demands that peo- 
ple are apt to make at such places on a boy. 


74 


PONKATT BRANCH ROAD. 


“as if he were made of Injy rubber and no 
feelin’s,’’ Jerome Tackaberry grumbled, being 
similarly imposed upon. 

While Tom carded, with no love for ancient 
fashions in his heart, an excitement arose near 
one of the doors. Drunken Josh Grindall, 
the unworthy son of a respectable Ponkaty 
farmer, was declaring his purpose to wreak 
vengeance on Squire Baxter, because he had 
prevented the railroad from going through the 
Grindall meadows according to the original 
plan. One of the workmen on the railroad, 
who had been discharged for drunkenness, was 
with Josh, and there was some difficulty in 
ejecting the two men. Ferguson, the young 
surveyor, had helped to put them out, and 
they had both heaped torrents of abuse on 
him for having “sold out.” 

McPhail had appeared at the celebration ; 
people said he had come back on purpose, and 
Squire Baxter was inclined to make much of 
him, inviting him to a seat on the platform ; 
but he had held aloof, and seemed to find his 
chief satisfaction in casting furious glances at 


HOW TOM SAW THE CENTENNIAL. 75 


young Ferguson, who bore them with entire 
composure. 

Tom broke through the crowd while the ex- 
citement caused by the drunken intruders was 
at its height ; the platform was deserted. Now 
he thought his time of triumph had come. 

The table was bare save for the visiting 
clergymen’s tall hats ! Every book had dis- 
appeared. There was something ridiculous 
about it ; that fact exasperated Tom the more. 
It was like the farce, “Here She Blows!” 
that Peace and he had seen at the Byfield 
Academy Exhibition, in which a series of ab- 
surd catastrophies hindered a man at every 
turn. 

But small mischances should not be allowed 
to hinder a matter in which so much of right 
and wrong were involved. Tom felt that his 
methods were wrong ; in spite of Lawyer 
Skimpole, he would act straight-forwardly, and 
fight the Squire if necessary. 

Ponkaty’s centennial should mark his as- 
sertion of manhood; one could not be a boy 
when one had so much depending upon him. 


76 


PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


He had once heard the Squire say that what 
people amounted to depended very much upon 
the shape of their noses. He might live to 
find out that there was something of a boy 
behind a snub nose ! That very night he 
would go to the Squire and demand their 
rights, — the woodlands which had been deeded 
to his father. 


A BAXTER IN PONKATY, 


77 


CHAPTER V. 

A BAXTER IN PONKATY. 

It was deep into the twilight of the late 
June evening when Tom set out for Butter- 
nut Hill with the determination to demand 
the restitution of the property that had right- 
fully belonged to his father. He had waited 
because he knew that his uncle was enter- 
taining the notabilities who had come to the 
centennial celebration; they would have de- 
parted by the time he reached the house, for 
they all had some distance to go. 

It had been hard to wait; he had whittled 
the toughest of pine-knots, and snubbed Peace, 
and rudely called the centennial celebration 
(of which in his heart he was proud) a 
monkey show ; ” but this disturbance of mind 
and temper had not dulled in the least the 
edge of his resolve. 


78 


PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


As he was crossing the field, — a short cut 
to the hill,’ — Jerome Tackaberry called after 
him that he had seen that McPhail fellow 
riding off lickety-split towards the Junction, 
with his face as white as a sheet, and he 
shouldn’t wonder if he and that Ferguson 
fellow had had a fight ; everybody thought 
that McPhail had something to do with chan- 
ging the railroad’s route when Ferguson didn’t 
want it changed, and Uriah Metcalf had heard 
the two young men exchanging hard words 
that afternoon. 

Tom scarcely listened. Jerome Tackaberry 
had a lively imagination any way, and liked 
to have something going on. Moreover, Tom 
said to himself grimly that he had all the 
fighting on his own account that he could at- 
tend to, without meddling with other people’s. 

Tom’s way “ across lots ” led him along by 
the Squire’s sawmill. It was a large old 
mill which Tom’s grandfather had built. More 
than one towering tree from the Baxter wood- 
lands had there been transformed into a great 
ship’s mast, and been started down the little 


A BAXTER IN PONKATY. 


79 


river on its way into the world. But the 
Kateechee was a very little river, and its cur- 
rent was slow, much too slow for the Squire’s 
ambition ; and of late the saws had rusted, wait- 
ing for the railroad. 

They would start up again soon, now that 
the railroad was there to carry the woodlands’ 
wealth into the world. 

There came to Tom’s ears a queer sound 
from the mill. Was his imagination so vivid 
that he already heard the sound of the ma- 
chinery? It came again; it sounded like a 
human groan. 

Pshaw ! Tom shook off the nervous feeling 
that came over him. The wind and the river 
made noises that seemed to creep into an un- 
occupied building in the night. 

Tom walked on, whistling a little ; the 
bravest boy is not above keeping his courage 
up in that way upon occasion. When he 
reached Butternut Hill, there were guests still 
there. The Squire was sitting on the piazza 
with them ; there were cigars and stories and 
laughter. Tom resolved not to give up. How- 


80 


PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


ever late it might be when his uncle’s visitors 
left, he should still listen to him. 

Tom did not overrate himself ; he knew that 
the excitement of the day had lent an artificial 
aid to his courage ; when to-morrow’s inevitable 
reaction came he could not tell how much of 
that courage might have vanished. 

He lingered for a while behind the arbor-vitse 
hedge, then he walked around to the back 
part of the house. There was a light in the 
window of the great buttery. Arianna was 
making bread there, singing, “The Day is a- 
wasting,” as she worked: — 

“Lord in the twilight, Lord in the deep night, 

Lord in the midnight, be thou nigh,” 

rang out her shrill treble, arousing a bird whose 
sleepy note sounded like a remonstrance. Tom 
wandered off down the hill ; he felt suddenly 
impelled to go towards the mill and listen for 
that queer noise again. When a boy went 
where there were lights and voices he got 
rid of that creepy feeling, and did not think 
it would come on again. 

Butternut Hill was long and steep. As Tom 


A BAXTER IN PONKATY. 


81 


neared the foot he became aware that a mist 
was arising from the river. It already lay in 
dense masses upon the low meadows, although 
upon the hill the atmosphere had the thin dry- 
ness of a long, early summer drouth. 

Above the mill the mist arose in heavy black 
clouds. What did that mean? queried Tom. 
Was it an effect of shadow or of atmospheric 
conditions ? 

There was an odor of burning; but he had 
been conscious of that ever since he left Bar- 
berry Lane. Many enthusiastic Ponkaty cit- 
izens had been giving small displays of fire- 
works, and the boys had fired crackers as if 
it were the Fourth of July. But this was 
more — it was different ! The black cloud 
above the mill was pierced by a thin tongue 
of fiame; and Tom ran towards the mill shout- 
ing “ Fire ! Fire ! ” at the top of his voice. 

There were no houses in the vicinity of the 
mill ; the Squire’s was the nearest. The wind 
carried his voice in the opposite direction. 
There must be ways to get water quickly from 
the river. While these thoughts crowded upon 


82 


TEE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD, 


Tom’s bewildered brain, he was pushing open 
the great door of the mill. Blinding, suffo- 
cating smoke drove him back, but not before a 
gasping cry for help had reached his ears. This 
was no sound of a summer night ; it rose above 
the roar and crackle of the fire. If he had 
only heeded the mysterious sound he had heard 
at first he might have saved a human life. He 
shouted as he fought his way along, and the 
voice answered imploring him to hasten. 

A great pile of boards extended through a 
doorway and overhung the river. There was 
almost always a pile of boards in that place ; 
many a surreptitious “ teeter ” had Tom en- 
joyed upon it. A sudden flash of flame showed 
him a recumbent figure upon the pile. The 
man had evidently crawled by inches far out 
upon a board that overhung the river; but in 
the current of air caused by the doorway the 
flames were leaping towards him. 

Tom never knew how he reached the help- 
less man ; he was blinded and dazed, but he 
found himself out upon the overhanging board 
that tilted under his weight. 


A BAXTER IN PONKATY. 


83 


He thought to go back as he had come, drag- 
ging this weight, but the flames were having 
a wild and weird witch dance in that doorway ; 
suddenly they burst through the roof, and to 
Tom it seemed that all the universe had turned 
to roaring flame. 

Faintly through the roaring there came to 
his ears the sound of the church-bells ringing 
the alarm. It dissipated the sense of dreadful 
nightmare. He felt under the board, and found 
that the pile was deep. He could make his 
way down hand over hand, until the drop to 
the river would be but slight; but with this 
helpless burden it was impossible. 

“ Go along ! Don’t mind me ! ” said the bur- 
den suddenly; “you can’t, you know.” The 
man half raised himself; and he looked so 
weirdly white in the dazzling light that even 
sensible Tom could scarcely overcome the im- 
pression that it was a ghost. 

“ You’re — you’re Ferguson!” he stammered, 
with an accent of relief as he bent over and 
tried to lift the sufferer. “And — and” — was 
it because the colored glasses were gone, or 


84 


THE PONE ATT BRANCH ROAD. 


had peril sharpened Tom’s dull wits ? — “ and 
you’re Julius Baxter!” he shouted. “You just 
cling to me — so — and we’ll drop to the river 
together. It’s the only way ! ” 

Such a calamity was this to wind up Pon- 
katy’s glorious day ! The mill was an old 
building ; but it had been built firmly, and there 
had been extensions and improvements. That 
very day Squire Baxter had talked of his plans 
to enlarge it. Ponkaty’s methods of fighting 
fire were but primitive; but where water was 
so close at hand the mill might have been 
saved if the fire had been discovered just a 
little sooner. It must have smouldered for a 
long time before it burst into flame ; for all 
at once, as was testified by young Pel Judson, 
who gave the alarm, “ all at once there was 
flame everywhere.” It was suspected that Josh 
Grindall, who had vowed vengeance upon the 
Squire, had carried his threat into execution 
when he was drunk ; and this theory was borne 
out by the fact that Josh disappeared from 
Ponkaty, and was next heard from in Arizona. 


A BAXTER IN PONKATY. 


85 


Early the next morning a report reached 
Butternut Hill that Tom Baxter was missing. 
Jerome Tackaberry brought the story, and 
the Squire heard it as he was leaning over 
his fence surveying the ruins of his mill. The 
Squire had fought fire with the best ; he had 
been almost all night about the ruins, and had 
not sought his bed at all. He had shown an 
undaunted front, and talked of plans for re- 
building even while the flames raged. But 
in the fresh morning light he looked old and 
shaken; and he called to Arianna, who was 
going to and fro between the garden and the 
kitchen, that he wished she would sing a 
wholesome, lively tune if she had got to sing. 
Arianna was singing with unusual unction, 
“ The judgment day is a-rollin’ ’round.” 

Arianna, who had stopped to listen, was sur- 
prised to see that the Squire seemed really 
moved at Jerome Tackaberry ’s account of 
Tom’s disappearance, and of the anxiety they 
were suffering in the little house at Barberry 
Lane. 

“Mebbe we’ve all got hearts — some’eres,” 


86 


THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


she said to herself with a sense of discovery. 
Aloud, she said that for her part she wa’n’t 
afraid but what Tom Baxter would light on 
his feet. 

“ They don’t know what’s become of that 
young Ferguson, either,” Jerome Tackaberry 
went on, eager to he the purveyor of thrilling 
news. “They’ve found those colored glasses 
of his among the ruins of the mill, and they’ve 
picked up a hat with his name in it, in the 
river.” 

“ He’s drownded I Oh, he’s drownded ! ” 
cried Arianna wildly. “Oh, that blessed boy 
that I promised his mother I’d look out for ! 
— oh, my lamb Julius!” 

The Squire turned a livid face upon her. 
“Julius? Julius?” he murmured. “‘Would 
you like to think your son capable of accept- 
ing a bribe ? ’ ” The Squire repeated the 
words with a hoarse and dreadful chuckle, 
the color returning to his face with a rush. 
Then suddenly his old features worked piti- 
fully. 

The next moment he was lying on the grass. 


A BAXTER IN PONKATT. 


87 


while Arianna tried frantically to loosen his 
necktie, and Jerome Tackaberry ran for the 
doctor. 

It was a stroke of paralysis, the doctor said, 
and the issue was doubtful : he might never 
regain consciousness ; he might yet live for 
years. 

“He’ll come to,” said Arianna with calm 
confidence. 

And he did. He opened his eyes with the 
old shrewd gleam in them, and looked grimly 
defiant at the doctor. He tried to raise him- 
self,* and it became evident that one side was 
paralyzed. He looked at what had been his 
good right arm with piteous surprise ; his 
strong features worked weakly again. 

“ My son ! my son Julius ! ” he murmured. 

Arianna drew forward the no-wise reluctant 
Jerome Tackaberry. 

“ Y ou tell him the whole story ; there ain’t 
nothin’ in this livin’ world that’ll do him so 
much good,” she said. 

“Them two have got back, Ferguson and 
Tom Baxter,” said Jerome Tackaberry, think- 


88 


THE PONKATY BBANCH BO AH. 


ing it not at all remarkable that the latest news 
should conduce to the Squire’s recovery. “ Bill 
Hackett fetched ’em up from the Bend in the 
stage. They’re down to Barberry Lane, and 
there’s a whole crowd there, shoutin’ and 
cheerin’ Tom Baxter, because he’s a hero for 
savin’ that feller’s life.” 

“He’s safe? — unharmed?” gasped the 
Squire. 

“ Tom ? — oh, the other feller ! He got an 
awful knock on the head. McPhail gave it to 
him ; he come up from the city a purpose, be- 
cause Ferguson told on him for — for selling 
out.” Jerome Tackaberry’s honest face grew 
red with the consciousness that he was trench- 
ing upon personalities. 

“He accepted a bribe; the other fellow — 
Ferguson — wouldn’t!” There was a curious 
ring of pride in the Squire’s mocking voice. 

“ He crawled into the mill, Ferguson did, — 
they was right near there when McPhail hit 
him, — and then those drunken fellers set it 
afire. ’Twas when ’twas all ablaze that Tom 
Baxter happened along and heard him holler; 


A BAXTER IN PONKATY. 


89 


he ketched hold of him, Tom did, and jumped 
into the river. ’Twas an awful close shave, 
you’d better believe!” Jerome’s narrative be- 
came more graphic as excitement overcame 
his self-consciousness. “And it took some 
gumption to drop kerchunk into the river in 
all that blindin’, suffocatin’ smoke with another 
feller hangin’ on to you! Tom ketched hold 
of some boards, and the other feller got so’t he 
could hold on a little too, and they floated 
down the river, clear down to the Bend; and 
come daylight, Amos Crandall, out flshin’ for 
perch for breakfast, he picked ’em up. If they 
ain’t about the used upedest lookin’ folks you 
ever see ! ” 

“ Bring them here, both of them, at once ! ” 
ordered the Squire. “ Tom Baxter ! Tom Bax- 
ter saved his life ! ” he repeated musingly. Ari- 
anna slipped out of the room; and from the 
corridor her voice floated back, less shrill than 
usual, — softened perhaps by tears, — but insis- 
tent, “The judgment day is a-rollin’ ’round, 
a-rollin’ ’round.” 

“Tell Arianna Pettingill that if she ever 


90 


THE PONKATY BBANCH ROAD. 


sings that hymn in my house again, she leaves 
my employ!” cried the Squire in a voice that 
paralysis had not broken. “No — no — no; 
you needn’t I ” He sank back and spoke softly, 
“ Singing didn’t bring it.” 

They fully justified Jerome Tackaberry’s de- 
scription when they arrived, Julius coming 
eagerly to his father’s side, his white face 
full of pity, Tom hanging back embarrassed 
by conflicting feelings. 

“Ferguson! Ferguson ! was the first thing 
the Squire said when his son took the disabled 
hand tenderly in his. 

“Does the name matter so much, father?” 
he said soothingly. “The man who gave me 
my opportunity in life, and who left me his 
fortune, wished me to take his name. He was 
a passenger on board the ship on which I ran 
away to sea. I nursed him through a fever. 
He was an engineer — an enthusiast in his pro- 
fession. I am going to Paris to study ” — 

“You will leave me — the wreck that I am 
now ? ” asked the Squire half angrily, half 
piteously. 


A BAXTER IN PONKATY. 


91 


“But I shall come back often, father ; and 
I will make you proud of me ” — 

“ I want to be proud of Ponkaty,” said the 
Squire in his own testy way. “ I want a 
Baxter in Ponkaty as long as the world 
stands ! Tom Baxter, do you want to go away 
from Ponkaty?” 

“ No,” said Tom — “ but ” — 

A spark showed itself in the Squire’s small, 
shrewd eyes ; the grimmest of grim chuckles 
came from his pale lips. 

“ But you want the deed ! That’s it, isn’t 
it ? ” he said. 

Tom had had a sufficient shock to feel that 
the world was topsy-turvy, anyway ; now the 
Squire seemed a magician before whose keen 
eyes his secrets were written out — as the 
deed had been written on the looking-glass.- 
“ I knew it all the time ! all the time ! ” 
chuckled the Squire. “ I never hid the deed. 
All the fools in Ponkaty have been whispering 
about that deed, and there it was in plain 
sight! You shall have the singing-book, Tom 
Baxter ! If you can prove the deed is legal. 


92 


THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


why, there’ll be a Baxter in Ponkaty ! I don’t 
mean that I’m going to die. I shall pull 
through this ; hut I want a Baxter in Pon- 
katy! Arianna ! Where’s Arianna ? I gave 
her the books to take care of yesterday.” 

“ Land sakes ! them old hooks ? I carried 
’em up into the attic; they was too rubbishy 
to put into the secretary again.” 

She returned from the attic with her arms 
full. If I’d thought they was of any use 
I w^ouldn’t have put ’em there ; them pesky 
mice got a foul of ’em. I expect nothin’ but 
what it’s the very one you want that they’ve 
ate. They seemed to kind of take a fancy 
to that glazed stuff.” 

Arianna held up the “ Perennial Hymns.” 
It was the back part of the cover that was 
gnawed half off! 

Tom might certainly be forgiven for feel- 
ing utterly desperate and discouraged then. It 
was as inevitable as the Fates in a Greek 
tragedy that something should come between 
him and the possession of that old singing- 
book cover just in the nick of time. The 


A BAXTJER IN PONKATT. 


93 


fatalities happened in the most natural way 
too, — in a way that was the more aggravating 
because it seemed farcical. 

Tom turned his face away. Peace had told 
him that when he turned pale his freckles 
stood out like spots on a veil; that drew 
people’s attention. 

The Squire was chuckling in intervals be- 
tween strongly expressed opinions of Arianna’s 
intellectual abilities. 

His queer conscience was evidently satisfied 
with the idea that Providence had settled the 
matter. No, not quite satisfied. 

“We’ll make it right, Tom,” he said. “I’ll 
make it worth your while to stay in Ponkaty.” 

. But Tom felt that he wanted his rights ; he 
didn’t want to be the Squire’s pensioner. This 
last fatality, to have his inheritance gnawed 
away by mice, seemed too much to bear. 

An exclamation from Garry aroused him 
from his gloomy reflections. 

In the midst of her tearful joy over Julius, 
Garry had suddenly caught sight of the 
gnawed cover. 


94 


THE PONKATY BRANCH ROAD. 


“ That’s what Peace and I both took ! ” 
she exclaimed. “We’ve got hea-u-iii\A photo- 
graphs ! We took the title-page because they 
said it was a curiosity; then Peace espied the 
writing, and we photographed that. We like 
to practise with writing. I have a perfect 
copy.” 

The Squire looked at it curiously when she 
brought it — a perfect copy of the old deed ! 
So did Tom. (It may as well be recorded 
here that he afterwards made a polite ac- 
knowledgment to Garry and Peace of a 
changed opinion of girls and photography.) 

“ That’ll be a good way to have it come 
out — eh, Julius?” said the Squire. “My 
daughter photographed it — it’s been right 
there all the time in that old book, and my 
daughter photographed it ! I could have held 
on to it if I had had a mind to, — don’t you 
go to singing about the judgment day, Ari- 
anna Pettingill ! — but we’ve got a railroad, 
and I want a Baxter in Ponkaty.” 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 








FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


CHAPTER L 

THE minister’s FAMILY. 

Miss Fify Bridge went panting up Pur- 
gatory Hill, and dropped, exhausted, upon 
the minister’s back doorsteps. She was rotund 
and heavy of person, and the earth seemed 
to be dissolving in mud. The January thaw 
had extended into February; and even in 
New England, where its vitals are of iron, 
it was evident that winter’s heart was broken. 
The door was opened by a tall girl of six- 
teen, with a somewhat aggressive chin, and 
a pair of alert gray eyes under her rough 
curly brown bangs. 

“It ain’t true, is it, that the minister’s sell- 
ing out?” demanded Miss Fify with a gasp 
95 


96 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


compounded of curiosity and want of breath. 
The girl frowned a little. She had a ready 
smile, which showed little dents and dimples 
in her serious face, but also her brows knitted 
readily. As she looked at Miss Fify’s volumi- 
nous flowered draperies, and the rusty crape 
veil — her joy and pride — which flowed in- 
congruously over them, a sudden pang of 
homesickness seized her that she should soon 
see them no more. She had felt the same 
pang last night when she caught a sudden 
glimpse of the three tall pines on Sheepscott 
Hill, which seemed to prop up the sky. Miss 
Fify, with her basket of small wares, which 
she invariably described as “a little taste,” 
was a bore, and many a time had Mary 
Olive wished herself far away from the lone- 
some frown of Sheepscott Hill ; but there is 
a queer natural selection about the familiar 
things that clutch at one’s heartstrings. 

“Yes, we are going away,” she said with 
a tremulous accent. “And of course,” she 
added, “it wouldn’t be worth while to carry 
our old furniture to Milbury.” 


THE MINISTER'S FAMILY, 


97 


“Now, you don’t mean it, Mary Olive ! Has 
your father got a call ? ” exclaimed Miss Fify. 

Miss Fify did not mean to hurt the girl’s 
feelings by implying that it was surprising 
that her father should have received a call. 
She was merely outspoken, and Mary Olive 
was used to her. 

“ He’s to have the charge of a mission 
chapel,” the girl explained patiently. “Father 
is not young and he has those fainting-fits ” — 

“ Nothing but indigestion ; the pains he has 
with ’em show that,” said Miss Fify oracu- 
larly. “ Some think he ain’t so pale for 
nothing; but I’ve seen white-livered folks live 
to ninety, and them that was as red as pi- 
nies die young. A mission chapel — humph ! 
I expect they think poor folks can stand a 
rattling of dry bones ; but for folks that are 
heartsick with poverty, good, sweet, every-day 
gospel that keeps their hearts up and their 
tempers down is the kind.” 

“ Father’s sermons are very deep ; not 
every one can understand them,” said Mary 
Olive, with a touch of resentment. 


98 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


“Well, if he can get enough to keep you, 
that’s the main point for you,” said the un- 
compromising Miss Fify. 

Mary Olive’s cheeks glowed with the con- 
sciousness of a joyful secret. She was im- 
pulsive, and it cost her an effort to keep 
silent; but she reflected that if she should 
tell Miss Fify that her father’s aunt had left 
them five thousand dollars, all Canterbury, 
from Sheepscott Hill to the Four Corners, 
would know it before night. 

“’Tain’t as if you and Samuel couldn’t do 
for yourselves — twins, and sixteen last Sep- 
tember,” pursued Miss Fify, to whom the 
ages of all Canterbury were household lore. 
“You’ve kept the summer school at Mile 
End, and like as not they’ll give you a pri- 
mary at Milbury. A lot of patience, and a 
little spark in your eye, and there you be 
for schoolkeeping. You’ve got ’em both, 
Mary Olive. As for Lowizy, that’s the oldest, 
— seventeen last winter, wa’n’t she? though 
she’s such a little mite of a thing, — she’s pink^ 
and-white complected; and for some folks it’s 


THE MINISTER'S FAMILY. 


99 


the business of life to be piiik-and-white 
complected. Where’s your father?” 

“He has gone over to see old Mrs. Gay- 
lord,” said Mary Olive. “ She had another at- 
tack of numbness, and thought she was dying.” 

“ Cat’s foot ! ” ejaculated Miss Fify. “ Mary 
Jane Gaylord begun numb, and numb she goes 
on because she’s got a chance to. Mary Olive, 
you haven’t had a fortune left you, have 
you?” 

For Mary Olive had selected from Miss 
Fify’s stores a veil of dotted net, and some 
very ornamental hairpins which just matched 
her brown hair, and she had a reckless sen- 
sation, half delight, half fear; for all her life 
Mary Olive’s purchases had been limited to 
stern necessities. She started guiltily at Miss 
Fify’s question; but it was evident that Miss 
Fify had meant only a little joke. 

“And a bottle of perfumery,” said Mary 
Olive firmly, though with a little gasp. 

Miss Fify asked many questions about the 
auction of the minister’s household goods, 
which was to be held the next week. A bar- 


100 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


gain was dear to Miss Fify’s heart; and she 
gave Mary Olive much good advice, and 
called back, as she went away, that their go- 
ing would be all right if the Lord went before. 

“ But ’tain’t as if you hadn’t got to fall 
into line yourself, and keep step lively,” she 
added, with a wise shake of the head. 

As Mary Olive stood in the doorway, gaz- 
ing absently at Miss Fify’s retreating figure, 
she caught sight of a little woman picking 
her way across the miry field. It was a bent 
little figure, and the hair above the forehead 
was silver in the sunshine; but the step was 
light with something like the elasticity of 
youth. 

“ It has made her young already, the brave 
little mother ! ” thought Mary Olive, with a 
thrill of joy. “She has been talking it over 
with her crony, Mrs. Tilly Sinclair; and they 
haven’t had such a good time together since 
they were girls at Hillsboro’ Bridge. It only 
means good times to Louly, not relief from 
care, for she never takes any ; and Sam seems 
so slow and dull. When I asked him if it 


THE MINISTER'S FAMILY. 


101 


didn’t make liim wild to think of having a 
chance to be somebody in the world, he said, 
in that gruff, bearish voice of his, that he 
never expected to have such fishing again as 
there was in the pool below Tumble Down 
Brook ! And father — father is above it all ; 
he leaves things to the Lord — and to mother! 
‘ It’s the Lord’s will, Miranda,’ he says when 
trouble comes; but mother feels like putting 
her good right arm to the wheel to keep the 
trouble from coming.” 

“ Good right arm ” had more than the usual 
significance in this case ; for as she came 
nearer, across the sodden field, one saw that 
the little woman’s left arm hung palsied at 
.her side. 

“ Mary Olive ! ” she called eagerly, as she 
came through the gate, “I’m going to give 
Tilly that buff-sprigged sugar-bowl and cream- 
pitcher that she always liked so much. We 
shall have a whole new set; not picked up 
pieces that don’t match, any more I I don’t 
know as I ever had a chance to make any- 
body a present before.” Her worn face was 


102 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLL AES. 


radiant with childlike delight. Mary Olive 
picked up the little woman as if she were a 
doll, and, placing her in the threadbare old 
haircloth rocking-chair, she dropped down 
beside her with her chin resting on the chair’s 
arm. 

“ Mother, how you have wanted things, and 
you never said a word!” There was a half- 
strangled sob in the clear young voice. 

“ Sometimes I have,” admitted the little 
woman in a confidential whisper. “It wasn’t 
high-minded; but at Conference times, when 
the ministers brought their wives, and there 
were not glasses enough to go round, and, 
manage all I would, the tin dipper would go 
to Mrs. Dr. Pillsbury ! It’s petty, I know, 
Mary Olive. Your father used to say, ‘ Life 
is larger than that;’ but I’m glad it’s over!” 

“You never said a word,” repeated Mary 
Olive tenderly, smoothing the mother’s hard 
and worn little hand. 

“ Mary Olive,” a shadow suddenly crossed the 
eager face, “Tilly Sinclair says I’m visionary; 
she thinks five thousand dollars isn’t much.” 


THE MINISTER'S FAMILY. 


103 


“Mucli!” gasped Mary Olive. “She wouldn’t 
think it wasn’t much if she had ever tried to 
live on four hundred and fifty dollars a year 
that the congregation couldn’t raise! It will 
be riches for us, mother.” 

A long, happy talk followed, of plans and 
prospects. Even the necessary economy seemed 
pleasant, as it is to healthy minds when it is 
without torturing anxiety. They rejoiced that 
there would be a chance for Sam — dear, 
stupid Sam, whom no one quite understood. 
Perhaps Louly might some time teach draw- 
ing, but it was difficult to tell what Louly 
would do. 

Mary Olive had the sort of back that fits 
itself to the burden; but Mary Olive would 
feel the burden, and grow a little bitter under 
it. Louly came in with her sketch-book. She 
had been trying to pick up some hints from 
Mary Price’s teacher, she said. She was glad 
that in Milbury she could have lessons of her 
own. Louly had a very fair skin and a deli- 
cate, flower-like face ; but her shoulders were 
stooping, like her mother’s, and her figure un- 


104 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


gainly. Summer visitors to Canterbury were 
apt to be struck by Louly’s beauty; but she 
lacked symmetry, and to Canterbury eyes, un- 
trained in artistic values, symmetry was all. 
Her large-jointed hands were pathetically small 
and ugly, and her gait was peculiar; the coun- 
try people laughed when they heard the sum- 
mer visitors call her graceful. She had no 
faculty, and it was doubtful whether she had 
a good disposition ; it was generally under- 
stood that Louly was “a trial.” 

“Hasn’t Sam come back from the office?” 
asked Louly. “ I should think it was time 
they sent the money. I can’t go to Milbury 
without some new things.” Mary Olive felt 
a guilty consciousness of the perfumery bottle 
in her pocket. The door opened slowly, the 
formality of knocking being dispensed with 
in Canterbury, and Mrs. Tilly Sinclair, pale 
and awe-stricken, laid her hand on the little 
mother’s • shoulder. 

“ Your husband, Miranda ! But it was peace- 
ful,” she said brokenly; “very peaceful after 
the terrible pain. And you must have known 


THE MINISTER'S FAMILY. 


105 


it would come soon ! Angina pectoris, the 
doctor said. Mrs. Gaylord was very nervous, 
and screamed. We don’t know whether that 
agitated him, or whether the attack would 
have come anyway. Miranda, don’t look at 
me so ! ” as the bowed figure clung to her, 
scarcely seeming to understand. “ God is 
above us.” 

Sam, short and sturdy, square of brow and 
chin, was coming through the gate with a 
letter in his hand and an eager expression — 
for Sam. He dropped the letter into his 
pocket as Mrs. Tilly Sinclair stood before him 
with her finger on her lip. 

It was only three days after the mortal part 
of the Reverend Abel Pennock had been laid 
to rest in the bleak little Canterbury church- 
yard ; and already his parishioners had begun 
to forget that they had ever, like Miss Fify 
Bridge, accused him of “rattling dry bones,” 
and believed that they had always loved and 
prized him. And in the parsonage on the hill, 
Louly had already decided that black clothes 


106 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


added to her picturesqueness, but not to Mary 
Olive’s sallowness. To the widow her hus- 
band’s death had been a bitter loss, but with 
all her anxieties her nature held a childlike 
optimism made of faith and trust ; and for 
such natures God is constantly making all 
things new. 

“ I don’t see why we should postpone the 
auction,” Louly had said several times ; and 
until now every one had gently “put the ques- 
tion by.” But Louly was insistent now, and 
appealed to Sam. Sam was quite accustomed 
to being a little snubbed ; it was curious to 
see how much importance the only masculine 
element had suddenly acquired. 

“We’ve got to — to face the music, you 
know,” said Sam gruffly. Sam had shown a 
depth of feeling which vaguely surprised his 
mother and sisters. There had always been a 
hope that some ability lurked behind Sam’s 
somewhat stolid outward presentment, al- 
though he would never be “smart,” like Tom 
Corry, who could puzzle the schoolmaster and 
outdo the lightning calculator at the show ; 


THE MINISTER'S FAMILY. 


107 


but no one had suspected that Sam had strong 
affections. 

“I suppose we’d better have the auction 
while the roads are open,” said the mother. 
Mary Olive, who stood for stern propriety in 
the family, nodded a grave assent; and they 
all felt that the links of life had joined them- 
selves together after the painful break which 
would always leave its mark. “We can’t go 
to Milbury until we have a letter from the 
executor, and know when we are going to 
have the money,” continued the widow. “ I 
suppose it is best to go,” she added tenta- 
tively. Sam had started up with a scowl of 
perplexity on his heavy brows. 

“I had a letter postmarked Milbury,” he 
said. “It was — that day, and I don’t know 
what I did with it. I haven’t thought of it 
since.” 

“ If that isn’t just like Sam ! ” exclaimed 
Louly, as Sam rushed to look in his overcoat 
pocket. 

“It’s no wonder that he forgot,” said Sam’s 
mother gently. 


108 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS, 


Sam returned with the letter, a crumpled, 
unimportant-looking letter; but they all felt 
as if their great good fortune had suddenly 
appeared to them in tangible form. The name 
of a Milbury lawyer, the executor of the estate, 
and his office address, appeared upon the en- 
velope, giving it a business-like character ; and 
Louly was surprised that a check for five 
thousand dollars did not drop out when her 
mother opened it. 

They gathered around their mother as she 
sat upright on the shabb}", slippery haircloth 
sofa where she had been lying ; and even Sam’s 
dull face, with eyes still showing the heavi- 
ness of the bitter boyish tears that are seldom 
shown even to the most loving eyes — even 
Sam’s face lighted with eagerness. Death and 
grief might lie close behind them ; but life 
opened a fair vista before, with grinding pov- 
erty forever gone. They grew impatient as 
their mother pored over the letter. Was it 
because her eyes were dim with much shed- 
ding of tears that she could not read it ? She 
looked up with quivering lips. 


THE MINISTER'S FAMILY. 


109 


“I can’t quite make it out,” she faltered. 
“ It seems to be a little different from what 
we expected. Cyrus, Aunt Lovisa’s step-son, 
is going to contest the will. Mr. Angier 
thinks the case won’t come to court, but that 
there will be a compromise, and the estate 
will be divided among the testator’s legal 
heirs, which will, of course, throw out the 
minor bequests entirely.” 

Sam’s strong face grew white. Slow Sam 
already understood. 

“ Minor bequests ! ” gasped Mary Olive. 
“ That can’t mean ours.” She was bewil- 
dered, and only realized that this astonishing 
person seemed to think, with Mrs. Tilly Sin- 
clair, that five thousand dollars wasn’t much. 

“ What do they mean ? They can’t help 
giving us ours. Aunt Lovisa meant us to 
have it ! ” cried Louly shrilly. 

The widow realized everything at once ; 
it was so much in the line of what had always 
happened to her ! If the money had come to 
them it would have been harder to realize — 
like a dream coming true. Yet the childlike 


no 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


soul would always go on half expecting her 
dreams to come true. She rose bravely to her 
full small height, although she trembled. 

“ If — if everything slips away, we must 
remember that God is sure,” she said. 

“Why, they must give it to us I ” broke in 
Louly’s shrill, insistent voice. “What could 
we do without it, now father is gone?” 

“Mother, life can’t be so hard as this!” 
cried Mary Olive passionately. But the little 
mother knew that it was. Sam went to her, 
and put his sturdy arm around her shrink- 
ing shoulders. Sam was short, but the brown 
head rose above the silver one. 

“ This is what I’m for, to take care of 
you,” he said, in what Mary Olive called his 
“big bear voice.” “Down there in Milbury 
there’ll be a chance for a fellow.” 


THE COTTAGE AT MILBURY. 


Ill 


CHAPTER IL 

THE COTTAGE AT MILBXJEY. 

It was arranged that they were to go to 
Milbury; in fact, those words of Sam’s had 
seemed to settle the matter. The mother hid 
her doubts in her heart ; there were “ chances ” 
in Milbury. The word, with its double signifi- 
cance, cast no chill upon the young hearts as 
it did upon the elder one ; then there came an 
encouraging letter from Aunt Lovisa Whitney’s 
daughter; and, after that, the mother’s optim- 
ism asserted itself, and she was as eager as any. 

Mrs. Lovisa Whitney was their father’s 
aunt. They had scarcely known of her exis- 
tence until, family ties and interests having 
suddenly revived in her failing heart and mem- 
ory, she wrote to the minister, regretting a 
lifelong estrangement, and declaring her in- 
tention to remember him in her will. Within 


112 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


three months had come a notice of her death 
and of the legacy. In the meantime there had 
been a brisk correspondence, and a visit of the 
minister to Milbury, which had resulted in his 
call to the mission chapel. 

It was Mrs. Adelaide Bearse, Aunt Lovisa’s 
daughter, who wrote. She seemed very much 
excited, and poured out, in many pages, the 
story of the wrongs she had suffered at Cyrus 
Whitney’s hands. She said there was a little 
cottage not far from her own house which they 
might occupy, rent free; a place would be 
found for Sam in the mills, and for Mary Olive 
she could find a situation as nursery governess. 

Mary Olive’s young ambition might not be 
satisfied by the career of a nursery governess, 
but “Not what ye would, but what ye may,” 
was Mary Olive’s motto. She held it with 
some bitterness of heart, but she held it. 

As for Sam, Mary Olive shrewdly suspected 
that Sam had very lately developed some am- 
bitions, he listened so intently to old Simy 
Alcock and Deacon Porter, who sat in the 
store on stormy days and hotly discussed the 


THE COTTAGE AT MILE UR Y. 


113 


tariff question. Perhaps he meant to be a 
statesman or a great financier. Could he climb 
to such heights through the drudgery of the 
mills ? Sam disjjlayed a masterly activity in 
the preparations for removal. He posted bills, 
announcing the sale, in the store and on the 
astonished fences and stumps ; and all Canter- 
bury, and large delegations from the neighbor- 
ing towns, came eagerly up the hill to the old 
parsonage, full of curiosity, of sympathy, and 
of a zeal for bargains. 

It was all over at last; even the farming- 
tools and the spotted cow were sold. Desde- 
mona, the ancient cat, was tearfully presented 
to Mrs. Tilly Sinclair, along with the buff- 
sprigged sugar-bowl and cream-pitcher ; while 
Miss Fify Bridge went triumphantly down 
the hill, her ample flowered petticoats drawn 
up, washerwoman fashion, big with bargains. 

The rickety old yellow stage left them at the 
Four Corners’ Station early the next morning. 
Just as the train started, Mary Olive took out 
her shabby purse. The little wad of bills in 
one end was all that was left of her school 


114 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


money; the larger roll in the other end was 
the proceeds of the auction. This was all the 
money they had in the world. Mary Olive 
counted it for tlie third time, without being 
able to make any more of it. But she looked 
out of the car window, and smoothed out 
the pucker between her brows ; the frown of 
Sheepscott Hill was far behind them, and the 
world was all before. 

The train plunged at last across the long 
bridge that spanned the river, out of the twi- 
light gloom, into the babel and bewildering 
light of Milbury Station. 

“ Do put your hat on straight, Louly ! 
We’re like pelicans of the wilderness ; every 
one is looking at us,” said Mary Olive. 

“ I think you must be my cousins.” A girl 
with a gracious little flutter of manner and a 
pert, bird-like poise of the head, had stopped 
before the little party in the ladies’ room. At 
a glance Mary Olive recognized that, plain as 
her dress was, it would have been an impos- 
sibility to the Canterbury dressmaker; but it 
was vaguely encouraging that her nose turned 


THE COTTAGE AT MILBUBT, 


115 


up. It did not seem to be within the power 
of a turned-up nose to be superlatively stylish 
or condescending. Certainly this nose was 
fascinatingly frank. 

“ Mamma meant to come ; but we — we are 
in trouble, and mamma’s nerves are not 
strong,” 'she explained. “ Here is Brinck ! 
Brinckley Whitney ; he’s another cousin, I 
think.” 

A boy with a slightly crooked back and a 
thin, strongly marked face, and a scowl which 
Mary Olive decided to be worse than Sam’s, 
peered at them tli rough his glasses, over the 
girl’s shoulder. 

“ They’re no relation to me ; none at all ! ” 
he said brusquely, in a thin, high-keyed voice 
which was oddly like an old man’s, and im- 
mediately turned on his heel, and disappeared 
in the crowd. 

“ You mustn’t mind Brinck* He’s rude,” 
said the girl easily. “ He’s Uncle Cyrus’s 
son, and he’s an only child, and he has never 
been well, and he’s queer, and puts on airs. 
He would get into the carriage because he 


116 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


wanted to tell me about the robbery in Uncle 
Cyrus’s counting-room. Peters is here with 
the carriage, and I’ll bring him to take your 
things.” 

As she turned, Sam advanced, red with ex- 
citement and important with checks. He shook 
hands after an abashed and scowling fashion ; 
and the new cousin regarded him somewhat 
doubtfully, although she had declared that she 
“ could generally get along with boys.” 

“ You’re the one who draws, aren’t you ? ” 
said the new cousin to Louly, as she followed 
an imposing coachman to the carriage. “You 
must come to my studio and see my sketches.” 

As they got into the carriage the boy Brinck 
suddenly appeared, his eyes fastened on Sam. 
The boys scowled mutually as their eyes met, 
with the sort of interest which boys of the 
same age are apt to show in each other. 
Then Brinck was lost to sight again in the 
crowd. 

“ You mustn’t mind Brinck,” Celia said 
again carelessly. 

They dashed through short streets and long 


THE COTTAGE AT MILBURY. 


117 


and winding thoroughfares; it seemed an end- 
less, homesick distance, for they had reached 
the stage of thorough weariness and discour- 
agement. And the cottage was empty and 
shabby. Celia said that if mamma had thought 
she would have sent some one to make a fire ; 
but it was so like mamma not to think ! After 
a while, with warmth and light and their own 
things, and a cosey, camping-out feeling, it 
grew better. Sam had seen that there was 
a garden sloping to the river, which cheered 
his heart ; and Louly found a fireplace, and 
kindled a fire in it. She sat over it and 
mused while the others worked to set things 
to rights. “ I wonder why that girl didn’t 
want me to draw well,” she said twice to 
Mary Olive ; and Mary Olive said, “ What an 
idea ! ” 

Celia was their earliest visitor the next 
morning. She bore profuse apologies from 
her mother, and was followed by Peters with 
a huge hamper containing a curious mixture 
of necessaries and luxuries, evidently packed 
in the hastiest manner. She followed the 


118 FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 

hamper into the kitchen, in spite of Mary 
Olive’s efforts to receive her more ' ceremoni- 
ously, and perched herself upon a flour-bar- 
rel in self-absorbed unconsciousness of being 
in the way. Of Sam’s candid scowls she 
could not be unconscious. 

“ He ties his face into a hard knot like 
Brinck. Aren’t boys funny ? ” she remarked 
frankly. “I wonder if Brinck will be able to 
bully you?” she added reflectively to Sam; 
“ he’ll try to. He stays about the mills half 
the time now. He’s too ill to go to school, 
and he fought with his last tutor, so that I 
don’t think Uncle Cyrus will get another one. 
His mother left him a lot of money, and it’s 
all invested in the mills, so he thinks he has 
responsibilities. Boys are such a trial ! ” Celia 
sighed heavily. “ Right in the midst of all 
this trouble about grandma’s property, whicli 
was making mamma half crazy anyway, Har- 
old had to run away. Mamm^ Jias had such 
a time with him ever since pap^ died ! And 
yet I believe she thinks morp of him than she 
does of any of us, unless it’§ liftje Kyrle, who 


THE COTTAGE AT MILBUBT. 


119 


is a boy too — and if little Kyrle isn’t a 
limb ! ” 

“ Your brother has run away ? ” asked the 
little mother, with a pang of sympathy in the 
thought that it might have been Sam. 

“ He has threatened to before, when mamma 
wouldn’t give him money enough ; but we never 
thought he would do it. Uncle Cyrus thought 
he ought to go to a military school, for the 
discipline, and mamma sent him ; that was just 
after papa died, when we were on good terms 
with Uncle Cyrus. But Harold ran away, and 
came home. Then he thought he would like 
business, and Uncle Cyrus took him into his 
counting-room. Of course he couldn’t stand 
that ; he said military discipline was a joke 
compared to Uncle Cyrus’s. Mamma said she 
wished there was a place for you in our 
mill,” added Celia, turning suddenly to Sam; 
“but Uncle Alvin thinks it will be just as 
well for you at Uncle Cyrus’s. He and Uncle 
Cyrus speak to each other just the same as 
ever — men are so queer ! ” 

It came out in the course of Celia’s discur- 


120 


FIVE TEOUSANJ) DOLLARS. 


sive talk that Sam was expected to report at 
Mr. Cyrus Whitney’s mills as soon as possi- 
ble ; while “mamma” was convinced that Mary 
Olive was qualified to teach the young idea 
in her nursery. Celia now reached the sub- 
ject which was evidently most important to 
her, and demanded to see Louly’s sketches ; 
and upon Louly’s persistent refusal to unpack 
them, until she could do so comfortably, she 
invited her to go home with her to inspect 
her studio. 

“She may help Louly about her drawing,” 
said Louly’s mother hopefully. She was al- 
ways hopeful about Louly’s drawing ; she ex- 
pected her to he a great artist. Mary Olive 
thought they might live to see Louly’s name 
in the paper, — it would be just like Louly to 
get her name in the paper, — but she should 
have to earn the money. 


IT ALL DEPENDS ON THE BOY. 121 


CHAPTER III. 

IT ALL DEPENDS ON THE BOY. 

As she sat opposite Celia in the carriage, 
Louly resolved to tell Cousin Adelaide, as soon 
as she saw her, that they must have the five 
thousand dollars. 

Around a bend in the river the road wound, 
and then the carriage turned in at an imposing 
granite gateway, and stopped before an ornate 
mansion, whose grounds sloped to the river. 

Louly followed Celia up three long flights 
of polished stairs, and into a little tower room 
which seemed to be hung in space, the river 
below and the sky above. Even now, with 
the river frozen and the cold February sky, 
it was so filled with the sense of freedom 
and of nature’s joy that its atmosphere was an 
inspiration ; what it would be in spring’s blue 
and brightness Louly could faintly imagine. 


122 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


“ It’s like being a bird ! ” she exclaimed. 
“The room isn’t spoiled by fripperies, any- 
way,” said Celia with satisfaction. “Mamma 
keeps buying me elegant things, and I stuff 
them away in here,” opening a large closet 
into which satin draperies and cushions and 
a variety of costly adornments were carelessly 
thrown. In fact, the studio was empty of un- 
necessary furnishing. There was a water-color, 
unfinished, upon an easel, and pen and pen- 
cil drawings pinned upon the walls. Celia 
watched Louly with anxious scrutiny as she 
looked at the pictures. 

“ How well you know how,” said Louly 
slowly. She did not quite understand, her- 
self, why she did not say bluntly, — 

“They’re meclianical — there’s no life or sen- 
timent in them; you only know how.” No 
one had ever thought Louly sympathetic ; but 
certainly something in the wistful eagerness 
of the girl’s face had touched her, and soft- 
ened the words on her lips. 

“ If you’re going to have lessons — ” Celia 
hesitated a little, “you’ll find old Herr Seid- 


IT ALL DEPENDS ON THE BOY. 123 


crlicli a delightful teacher, though he won’t 
take you unless he really thinks you have 
talent. I have so many studies to hinder 
me,” she added plaintively. 

“ I’m going to work — I don’t think I ever 
have worked,” said Louly reflectively. Either 
the other girl’s eagerness, or the atmosphere of 
her hare little sky-steeped studio, had stirred 
Louly's languid impulses. 

“ Mamma will look forward to my coming 
out,” pursued Celia. “But I don’t care for 
society. I want to be an artist. I wish we 
might be poor right away. Mamma declares 
that we shall be ; she thinks of nothing but 
money, money, money ! ” 

Louly shook her head with much decision, 
for Louly. 

“It’s very unpleasant to be poor,” she said. 
“Not because one cares so much for having 
things ; but — but in Canterbury they used to 
look at each other because Mary Olive did 
all the work. I heard that they said that I 
kept my hands white — as if I cared about 
my hands! It’s only that I can't scrub and 


124 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


sweep and wash dishes.” Louly’s delicate 
thin lips quivered. 

“Can you draw?” demanded Celia, scru- 
tinizing her with drawn brows. “ Because if 
you can, you can earn money, and that is 
just as well.” 

“ I have sketched just because I liked to. 
Do you really think I could earn money ? ” 
Louly’s languid tones were sharp with eager- 
ness. “ Mary Olive thinks I don’t care, but it 
almost kills me to be only a burden ! ” There 
was a strangling sob in Louly’s throat. Mary 
Olive would certainly have thought she was 
dreaming if she had been there to hear. 

“It’s a very misunderstanding world,” said 
Celia with a puzzled frown. “ When you’re 
not just like other people they don’t know 
what to make of you. I think there’s a great 
deal of misunderstanding in this quarrel over 
grandma’s estate. Mamma thinks now that 
the robbery was only a scheme of Uncle Cy- 
rus’s to tiirow suspicion upon Harold. Some 
one robbed the safe, and Harold had been in 
the counting-room, and was trusted more than 


IT ALL DEPENDS ON THE BOY. 125 


any one. Jeff Carter, a young man whom 
Uncle Cyrus had discharged for misconduct, 
is suspected. They can’t see how the thief 
could have got away; for Ferrin, the watch- 
man, shot at and wounded him so there was 
a pool of blood on the flagstones. Jeff Carter 
can’t be found. Of course it was he ; but just 
because Harold ran away at the same time 
mamma has got that idea into her head.” 

There was a sudden onslaught of small fists 
upon the door, and shrill voices loudly de- 
manded admittance. 

“ Go away, Daidy ! I don’t want you now, 
Kyrle ! ” cried Celia impatiently. “ Oh, it’s 
mamma, too ! ” as the door opened to admit a 
delicate, worn woman, whose sallowness and 
wrinkles were painfully accented by her rose- 
colored morning gown, with its profusion of 
lace and ribbons. 

“ Celia, the worst that I feared is true ! ” 
she cried. ‘‘Jeff Carter has appeared, and 
proved that he had nothing to do with the 
robbery ; and Cyrus Whitney has set a sheriff 
upon the track of my innocent boy ! ’ ’ 


126 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


Mrs. Bearse’s voice broke suddenly, and she 
wept unrestrainedly in a lace handkerchief. 

“ Some one has been imposing upon you, 
mamma, and you’re so excitable,” said Celia 
with an unmoved countenance. 

“ He sent me a letter — that man sent me a 
letter about what he was obliged to do. The 
Pennock boy brought it; he’s down-stairs now. 
Are -you one of the Pennock girls?” turning 
suddenly to Louly. “Well, you’d better go 
back to Canterbury ! I can’t do anything for 
you. We shall all be in the poorhouse soon, 
and my poor boy in prison. And Cyrus will 
crush you under his feet. You’d better go 
back to Canterbury; tell your mother I say 
so. Cyrus had better attend to his own son ; 
he’s cherishing a viper that will sting him. 
There’s where the plot originated to ruin my 
poor Harold. Brinckley planned it, and his 
father helped him to carry it out.” 

“ Mamma ! mamma ! ” interposed Celia. But 
the torrent of words flowed on. Louly heard 
it, as, slipping out at the door, she hurried 
softly down-stairs. Louly loved smoothness 


IT ALL DEPENDS ON THE BOY. 127 


and peace, and never meant to have her nerves 
jarred by painful scenes. Sam stood stolidly 
upon the Turkish rug in the hall. 

“ She told me to wait. I don’t know what 
I’m to wait for,” he said in an injured tone. 

“ You come home ; she has plenty of ser- 
vants,” said Louly, whose pride had been 
>vounded by the advice to go back to Canter- 
bury. “ Sam, is Mr. Whitney so dreadful ? Will 
he give you a place in the mill? ” she demanded, 
as they passed through the great gateway. 

Sam nodded grimly, apparently in assent 
to both inquiries. Louly looked at him with 
sudden solicitude. With all its ruggedness of 
feature, Sam’s face had a soft, boyish bloom ; 
his strong chin had a dimple that his mother 
loved. An indefinable change, it seemed to 
Louly, had passed over his face. 

“Sam, will it be so very hard?” she asked 
anxiously. “You look as if — as if you would 
never be a boy again ! ” 

“ A fellow can stand things — but it isn’t 
going to be much like fishing in Tumble 
Down Pool,” said Sam dryly. 


128 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


These were the things that had befallen him 
at the mill — things which he could not bear 
to tell Louly just then. 

Mr. Cyrus Whitney, a tall, spare man, with 
beetling brows that instantly reminded Sam 
of the jagged overhanging rock on Sheepscott 
Hill, had looked up impatiently from his desk 
as Sam was ushered into the counting-room. 

“ Another boy ? ” he said. “ Oh, yes ; to take 
Rafflin’s place. Let Wilson attend to him. 
Why did you bring him here? 

“Oh, I remember! youTe the Pennock boy,” 
he said wearily ; and Sam received the painful 
impression that all boys were superfluous, and 
that he was criminally so. “If you’re not 
afraid of work, and can do as you are told, 
you’ll get along; but understand, you’re not 
to expect any favors.” 

Sam thought with self-contempt, and with 
a lump in his throat which threatened to choke 
him, of the visions with which he had be- 
guiled his homesick heart on the way to the 
mill. In these, Mr. Whitney had told him that 
he remembered his father as a boy, and that I 5 


IT ALL DEPENDS ON THE DOT. 


129 


looked like him ; had called him a brave boy, 
and said that he should not lack friends ; had 
taken him to drive in his carriage, and in- 
vited him to dinner ; had even said, like Celia, 
“ Don’t mind Brinck ! ” 

“ Take him to Wilson, and let him tell him 
when to report for work,” said Mr. Whitney’s 
hard, dry voice to the clerk. And Sam’s 
courage rose suddenly to the occasion, with the 
sense of being thrown upon himself, which, 
in one way or another, sooner or later, comes 
to every one of us. As he was leaving the 
counting-room a hysterical, dishevelled woman 
appeared, half dragging a reluctant and abashed 
young man. Sam heard Jeff Carter’s name 
from one and another, and the woman ex- 
plained volubly where her son had been on 
the night of the robbery. 

There was a whispered consultation between 
Mr. Whitney and several other men, while the 
woman’s hysterical assertions ran on in end- 
less repetitions. Ferrin, the watchman, was 
summoned, and testified with great positive- 
ness that the man had been shot in the leg. 


130 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


and must have been badly injured. Sam beard 
Harold Bearse’s name now ; and Mr. Whit- 
ney, whose brows looked more than ever like 
Sbeepscott crag, said there was “ no time to 
be lost.” Sam bad gone to Wilson, the over- 
seer, then, and been absorbed for the time 
in bis own affairs. Wilson was rough and 
jocose in a way that was very trying to a 
boy’s self-esteem ; it jarred the sense of hero- 
ism be bad felt in being thrown upon him- 
self. He was a number — not even a boy — 
when be left Wilson. As be passed the count- 
ing-room on bis way out, some one called to 
liim, and asked him if be did not live in the 
Sbrady Cottage that was near Mrs. Bearse’s 
bouse ; if so, be could take a letter to her. 
He waited for the letter, which Mr. Whitney 
was writing ; and a newcomer, a man with a 
pair of pleasantly twinkling eyes above a large 
nose, which seemed to wear spectacles on its 
own account, looked curiously at him. 

“ So you’re Abel Pennock’s son ? ” he said 
kindly. “Well, everything depends on what 
kind of stuff there is in a boy.” 


IT ALL DEPENDS ON THE BOY. 131 


Sam’s heart thrilled with a little comfort. 
This was Mr. Alvin Whitney, he was sure, 
and even in this excitement they must have 
spoken of him. But it all depended on the 
boy ; one was stern and the other kind, hut 
they both threw him on himself. 

Before he reached the outer door Brinck 
suddenly waylaid him. The boy’s sallow face 
was very pale, and his small, deep-set eyes 
were dark with excitement. 

“ You know the old mill that is just below 
your house? Well, meet me there this after- 
noon at three o’clock. It’s a very important 
matter, and I don’t want you to forget it.” 

Sam scowled darkly. He might be only a 
number in the mill, but he wasn’t going to 
take orders from this fellow, with his squeaky 
voice and his airs ! Louly sympathized with 
him, and said she wouldn’t ; but Mary Olive, 
who felt the indignity more than either of 
them, thought he would better go. 

“You see how it is, Sam; there are more 
boys than places,” she said practically. “If 
you couldn’t get a place I don’t know what 


182 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


we should do. That boy is an only son, and 
I think he has things all his own way. If 
you’re poor you have to bear things.” 

“ Then money means everything ! ” said Sam, 
with a queer thrill in his voice as he rose sul- 
lenly from the back doorsteps, where he had 
been sitting, irresolute, while the kitchen clock 
— the same old clock, with a red-cheeked lady 
painted upon it, that had ticked away the 
easy hours in the Canterbury kitchen — slipped 
its hour-hand steadily beyond the three black 
marks on its dial. Mary Olive’s dissent died 
on her lips ; homesickness, the dreary bareness 
of the little house, and the uncongenial, menial 
work before her, had embittered her heart all 
day. She had refused to go down town with 
her mother and Louly to buy a carpet for the 
parlor — her mother, who was childishly de- 
lighted with the prospect of a new carpet, and 
Louly, who seemed wholly absorbed in the de- 
termination to find an artistic pattern. Of 
wdiat use would it be to tell Sam that money 
was not everything? 


IN THE OLD MILL, 


133 


CHAPTER IV. 

IN THE OLD MILL. 

Sam took liis sullen way over their own 
garden slope to the river, and walked out upon 
its frozen surface, to avoid the stubbly frozen 
ground, to the point where the city’s life upon 
the river began in mills and warehouses and 
wharves. The old mill — once occupied by 
the firm of Whitney & Bearse, which had been 
dissolved by Mr. Bearse’s death — stood nearest 
to the little cottage, towering above it, in fact, 
with only a few feet of intervening ground. 
It was a very large wooden building, from 
which the machinery had been removed, leav- 
ing a gaping rent here and there, and having 
something of the pathetic aspect of a strong 
man shaken by illness, and uncertain whether 
he is to be rehabilitated for the world’s work, 
or whether his end is near. Sam tried the 


134 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


great door in the rear, found it locked, and 
was turning away with a sigh of relief, when 
he heard a side door open, and went around into 
the court. Brinck’s thin, eager face looked out, 
and Brinck’s nervous hand beckoned imperi- 
ously. 

“This is my door; my — my quarters are in 
this side,” he said. He drew Sam inside the 
entry-way, and seated him on one of the stairs, 
which was not wide enough for two. “I — I 
can’t be here much of the time, and I have to 
keep something here which is very valuable. 
I don’t want this spoken of to any one ; my 
affairs are private. You live near, and I 
don’t altogether trust Cary, the watchman. If 
you should hear or see anything — anything 
unusual, you are to let me know. You under- 
stand? Don’t speak of it to any one, but let 
me know at once.” 

“Ish’an’tbe here,” said Sam. “I’m going 
to work in the mill Monday.” 

“But you can keep watch while you are 
here, and report to me at the mill. I’m there 
most of the time. I feel as if I ought to see 


IN THE OLD MILL. 


135 


how things are going on.” In the obscurity 
of the entry-way Sam permitted his lip to 
curl. If the Canterbury schoolmaster had this 
sixteen-year-old fellow, he would take him 
down a peg ! 

“ That fellow isn’t all there,” he said to him- 
self, indulging in forbidden slang, after they 
had parted, with mutual scowls by way of 
good-by ; and he ground his heels fiercely into 
the ice of the river in vague reprisal for the 
wounds which his pride had received from 
Brinck’s overbearing manner. “ But I sup- 
pose he has us all under his thumb because 
we’re poor.” Sam repeated to himself, with 
added bitterness, what he had said to Mary 
Olive, “ Money means everything ! ” And he 
added a vow which only the frozen river and 
far-off unheeding sky could hear, but which 
stamped itself upon the boy’s strong will, 
“ I’ll have money — somehow ! ” 

He repeated to Mary Olive the opinion of 
Brinck which he had murmured to himself 
when he parted from him, and Mary Olive 
forgot to reprove him for the slang; but she 


136 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


thought he must do as Brinck wished about 
everything. Celia came again that night just 
after Mrs. Pennock and Louly had returned 
from their shopping, and while Louly was 
drawing for Mary Olive the very artistic pat- 
tern of the new carpet, which would not be sent 
home for several days. Celia declared that it 
was so gloomy at home that it was impossible 
to stay there. 

“Uncle Cyrus wrote mamma that he was 
going to have Harold arrested for his own 
good, and that made mamma furious,” she said. 
“ She quotes that sentence from the oratorio, 
‘ He will pursue us until he destroys us,’ about 
Uncle Cyrus, though she would say that J was 
profaning Scripture if I did it; and she has 
sent her diamonds down to the security vaults 
for fear Uncle Cyrus will get them. I really 
fear for mamma’s mind. It was cruel of Harold 
to run away: but of course he couldn’t foresee 
the robbery ; and, if he could, he wouldn’t have 
imagined that anybody could have such a dread- 
ful suspicion of him. Money does make so 
much trouble ! ” Mary Olive echoed Celia’s 


IN THE OLD MILL. 


137 


sigh, while Sam, in his corner, wondered why a 
fellow like Harold Bearse should have trouble 
about money. 

“Poor Harold needed more money than any- 
body I ever saw,” added Celia naively. It 
soon became evident that in spite of her family 
troubles Celia was still intent upon seeing 
Louly’s sketches ; and this time Louly was 
gracious, and produced not only her sketch- 
book, but her portfolio, — an old school atlas, 
— filled with hasty bits of Canterbury scenery 
and the Canterbury flora, even to the mullein 
and thistles which embowered the old parson- 
age’s back doorsteps. Celia was unwontedly 
cold and constrained ; she called attention to 
many defects, and when she praised it was 
but faintly. 

“ And yet I really wonder that you could 
do anything at all without training,” she said, 
after she had even smiled a little at a sketch 
of pasture bars, — it was Mrs. Tilly Sinclair’s 
pasture, — with a clematis vine climbing and 
winding itself over them. Louly shut the old 
atlas with a little bang, and there were tears 


138 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


of vexation in her eyes. She knew that the 
sketches were crude ; that she had not the 
genius that can dispense with training, if in- 
deed any genius can afford to do tliat ; but, 
like Sam, she was beginning to find the airs 
of these rich people intolerable. Celia went 
away in the same constrained mood, accom- 
panied by Sam, who reluctantly obeyed his 
mother’s behest that he should escort her home, 
as she had walked and it was now dark. They 
walked for half the way in silence, and then 
Celia suddenly turned. 

“ I must go back ! I’m sorry, but you won’t 
mind a longer walk ? I must make amends to 
Louly. I am curious, you know, knd I let it 
get the better of me. I was afraid I should if 
she could draw. She has lots of talent, and 
I — I haven’t a spark. I’m mean inside, and 
I have to fight it — that’s all. You needn’t 
tell.” 

“ They’re a pretty queer lot,” murmured 
Sam to himself as he trudged obediently back 
by Celia’s side. 

“I just came back to say that I want you 


IN THE OLD MILL. 


139 


to show your sketches to old Herr Seiderlich,” 
she said easily to Louly. “ He’ll be sure to 
want to give you lessons for anything you 
like to pay ; he’s crazy to get hold of a genius, 
and I believe you are one ! ” 

“You — you didn’t act as if you did ! ” 
flashed Louly, swallowing a sob. 

“ Never mind ; that’s the way I act some- 
times,” said Celia lightly. “There’s the love- 
liest little room for a studio in the old mill, 
and I’m going to get mamma to fit it up for 
you ; it will take up her mind, and do her 
good. It’s skyey, and full of glorious lights, 
and away off from everybody. I’ll come down 
to-morrow morning, and we’ll go and see it. 
And see here ! ” Celia produced from her purse 
a newspaper clipping ; “ this was in the 

Gazette last week. Stillman & Weeks, the 
great paper manufacturers, offer a prize for 
the best design for a nursery wall-paper, a 
floral design. I suppose people are tired of 
Bluebeard and Jack and the Beanstalk and 
the Mother Goose pictures that have been in 
fashion so long. The prize is an art school 


140 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


scholarship. I tliought it might be just in 
your line.” 

“ Oh, if I only could ! ” gasped Louly. 

“ I’m going to try,” said Celia. “ I don’t 
want the scholarship ; mamma wouldn’t let me 
go, but people would know that one can draw. 
I know the conditions by heart ; you can keep 
the cutting. It’s almost worn out, I’ve taken 
it out to give or send to you so many times, 
and then ” — Celia looked up quickly ; but 
Louly’s eager eyes showed no suspicion of the 
reason for her hesitation. “I’m a horrid girl,” 
said Celia contritely. “ I hope you’ll try it. 
It’s just in your line.” 

Mrs. Bearse came down with Celia the next 
morning, evidently aroused to a real interest 
in fitting up a studio for Louly in the old 
mill. She wept hysterically at intervals about 
her son, and said Brinck was a little viper 
that had always been trying to sting him ; 
but she forgot her trouble for a while in con- 
sidering the color in draperies which would 
best suit Louly’s complexion, and Louly quite 
forgave her for having advised their return 


IN THE OLD MILL. 


141 


to Canterbury. Sam followed the party to 
the old mill. He remarked gruffly on the 
way that it would be lonesome for a girl, and 
there were rats and things, but subsided, feel- 
ing that he had done all that could be ex- 
pected, when his objection was met by Mrs. 
Bearse’s assurance that the presence of the 
watchman and the mill’s proximity to the cot- 
tage made it a perfectly safe and proper place 
for a studio, and by Louly’s prompt declara- 
tion that she was never lonesome or afraid. 

The little room which was to become Louly’s 
studio was higher than Celia’s; and, though 
it did not overhang the river, it had much 
the same effect of being suspended between 
river and sky, so near was the mill built to 
the water’s edge. The little carpenter work 
that was necessary was to be done at once, 
and the simple furnishings provided, and Lou- 
ly’s cup ran over. 

“We may see your sister a great artist,” 
Mrs. Bearse said to Mary Olive. Louly’s fair 
face clouded when Mary Olive said bluntly 
that she hoped she would “earn some money.” 


142 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLAUS. 


“You must come up and see the children 
to-morrow, and begin your duties as governess 
as soon as possible,” Mrs. Bearse returned. 
That meant that she must expect to earn the 
money, thought Mary Olive ; and such sym- 
pathy as she had been able to feel in Louly’s 
happiness was spoiled. 

Sam wandered around through the main 
building to the side wing where Brinck had 
told him his room was located. It was a long 
journey, and lie opened several closed doors, 
and passed through a long tunnel-like entry 
into which no light could reach. Near the 
side staircase where Brinck had sat, a sound 
suddenly stopped him — a sound like a long- 
drawn sigh, which seemed to come from be- 
hind a closed door near him. The wind 
through some crevice, thought Sam; but there 
was no wind and no crevice. Suddenly from 
the same direction came a low, deep groan. 
Sam was a sturdy, sensible New England boy, 
wdth no belief in ghosts, and with an imagi- 
nation unperverted by the sensational myste- 
ries of vulgar fiction, but for a moment his 


m THE OLD MILL. 


143 


heart stood still. Was Brinckley there in dis- 
tress ? taken suddenly ill or hurt ? he thought, 
seeking the most reasonable solution of the 
mystery. He would investigate. But with 
his hand on the door, and Brinckley’s name 
on his lips, he heard a shout from the girls ; 
they were calling to him on the other side 
of that dark tunnel, and he hurried to meet 
them. 

“ How did you dare to go through there ? ” 
demanded Celia. “ How white you are ! Did 
you see or hear the rats and things?” 


144 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS, 


CHAPTER V. 

UP-HILL WORK. 

Sam found himself needed at home for in- 
numerable small tasks and errands, which he 
performed with that groan ringing in his ears, 
and his mind confused with the doubt whether 
he ought to go in search of Brincldey, or 
arouse the neighborhood, or hold his peace and 
ignore the mystery as no affair of his. He 
found it impossible to do the latter, pursued 
as he was by the thought that some one might 
be suffering pain which he could relieve, and 
early in the afternoon he was again at the 
great door in the rear of the mill. The door 
was locked; and, as he now remembered, Mrs. 
Bearse had sent the key to the carpenter who 
was to transform the little room in the tall 
wing for a studio for Louly. 

Sam went around to the front and the side 


UP-HILL WORK. 


145 


doors, but they were all fastened. Then he 
returned to the little side door, which was 
directly under the room from whence the 
mysterious sound had proceeded, and knocked 
boldly and insistently. An iron shutter swung 
slowly aside from a window on the ground 
floor near the door, and an old Irishman thrust 
out a rubicund face, framed in grizzled hair 
and beard. 

“ Can’t ye read ‘ No Admittance ’ at all, at 
all, or haven’t ye eyes in your , head ? ” he 
demanded. 

“When I was in this building with Mrs. 
Bearse this forenoon, I heard a very strange 
noise, and I wish to have it explained,” said 
Sam, with an unconscious adoption of Brinck’s 
grandest air. 

“A n’ise, is it? There’s a dale iv rats,” 
answered the old watchman in a somewhat 
subdued tone. 

“ There was some one in distress up in a 
room on the third floor,” persisted Sam. 

“ Disthress, is it ? An’ are ye afther takin’ a 
conthract to attind to all the disthress in the 


146 


FIVE THOUSAND BOLLABS. 


world? It’s a foine toime ye’ll be havin’,” 
said the old man with scornful condescension. 
There was evidently a secret which old Cary 
meant to keep. 

“ I shall be obliged to — to report the mat- 
ter,” said Sam, turning away in dire perplexity. 

“ Take the advice iv an ould felly, and kape 
a qui’t tongue in your head ! If ye report to 
Masther Brinckley, ye’ll have your throuble 
for your pains, barrin’ ye’ll make him onaisy 
that has onaisiness enough already; if ye re- 
port to Misther Whitney himself ye’ll do more 
mischief than we’ll anny iv us live to see the 
end iv ! D’ye moind this now — ye’ll niver 
get hurted moindin’ your own business, and 
ye’ll niver learn to do it younger ! ” 

Sam turned away, puzzled by the old man’s 
mingling of jocularity and evident anxiety. 

“Whisht now!” called the watchman in a 
cautious tone. “ If it’s thrue what the carpen- 
ter’s b’y is afther tellin’ me, that some girl 
is go’n’ to have a place fixed up aloft to take 
forty graphs, or some such divarsion, ye just 
tell her that the place is black wid rats be- 


UP-HILL WORK. 


147 


yant the dark corridor ! I’m afther sindin’ 
word to Masther Brinckley, and maybe he can 
put a shtop to the foolishness; but if she 
comes ye tell her about the rats — how they 
squales and groans like, and how there do be 
mice that jumps out at ye, and runs down 
your back ! ” 

It was evident that the old man was in 
Brinckley’s confidence, and Sam began to feel 
that he was meddling unwarrantably in other 
people’s affairs ; but he doubted whether the 
fear of rats and mice would keep him on 
the other side of that dark corridor. He was 
very busy setting things to rights in the cot- 
tage the next day, but Mary Olive said his 
wits were wool-gathering. When she left him 
to go to Mrs. Bearse, she remarked sarcasti- 
cally, and a little crossly, that she “ didn’t 
think it would look too set if the figures 
on the sitting-room paper all ran the same 
way.” Sam had his mother’s checked apron 
tied around his neck, and, with a pail of flour 
paste, was patching up rents in the sitting- 
room paper. Louly was up in her little room 


148 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


under the eaves with her sketches of the Can- 
terbury flora scattered around her. Mary 
Olive had said impatiently that she didn’t 
see what good it was going to do to keep 
drawing those weeds over and over, for Louly 
had made Sam promise “ solemnly ” that he 
would not tell Mary Olive about the prize. 
She wanted to surprise her when she got 
it,” she said. Sam had shaken his head doubt- 
fully ; he felt that he knew more of the world 
than Louly did, since the experience which 
made him a number in Whitney’s mill. “The 
many fail, the one succeeds,” was in Sam’s 
mind ; but he could not bear to say it. 

Meanwhile Mary Olive was walking faint- 
heartedly along the frozen river towards the 
mass of highly ornamented towers and gables 
at the river’s bend. She was disheartened 
with overwork, and with the vexing problem 
of furnishing a house comfortably when one 
scarcely dared to spend a dollar, and also a 
little with the sense of being outside the 
pleasant artistic interests that were growing 
up around Louly. The pleasure was for 


UP-HILL WORK. 


149 


Louly, the drudgery for her; and yet Louly 
was the older. Which was true — that Louly 
couldn’t or wouldn’t do her share ? It was 
the old problem, over which Mary Olive’s 
brows had often ached in vain. Presently 
the crisp air and sunlight brought a little 
exhilaration and more wholesome thoughts, 
and Mary Olive began to run and slide on 
the ice. Suddenly there swooped down upon 
her a small figure, tangled its skates up in her 
skirts, and brought her down in a heap upon 
the ice. 

“Can’t you look out when you see a fellow 
coming?” demanded a small, indignant voice, 
while Mary Olive was fully aware that the 
onslaught was premeditated. 

“ If you’re Miss Pennock, you better go back. 
I’ve got creepy things that I put down teach- 
ers’ backs. Miss Tompkins had nervous pros- 
tration. I gave it to her,” proudly. 

With a desperate sense that she must be 
equal to the occasion, Mary Olive uttered some 
of the dignified but beguiling pleasantries with 
which she had been wont to influence her 


150 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


Canterbury pupils. The keen-eyed knicker- 
bockered person replied in wholly unintelli- 
gible slang, and was off, making so directly 
for a large air-hole that Mary Olive shut her 
eyes. A small girl, with the same aggressive 
air, was seated upon the ice waiting for Mary 
Olive to come up. 

“ I don’t want to be told stories. I hate 
stories ! ” she cried shrilly. “ And I sha’n’t 
be ashamed if I can’t write words when I 
grow up ; but if you’ll save me your plum- 
cake at luncheon I won’t thump you.” 

The “ peaceful wiles ” which beguiled the 
well-mannered Canterbury children would 
clearly be unavailing here. 

A third child, an older girl, fat and frankly 
plain, with freckles and a turned-up nose like 
Celia’s, bore down upon Mary Olive. She 
seized her arm, and leaned her heavy weight 
upon it affectionately. 

“I know I shall like you, and I’m going 
to be good and learn even ’rithmetic,” she 
declared earnestly, and Mary Olive’s soul felt 
soothed from its hurts, ‘‘fractions and all,” 


UP-HILL WORK. 


151 


she continued with a little hug ; “ so I can 
get married soon like Dicky Prime’s sister, 
and have a white silk trail and tall flowers 
in my hair.” 

With a joyous little skip of expectancy this 
one of Mary Olive’s new pupils switched an 
imaginary train over the ice towards Kyrle 
and the air-hole. 

When she reached the house Celia came to 
meet her, looking sunny and serene. 

“ The children are running wild,” she said, 
“ and mamma is in such a state ! I thought 
she would better not see you, but she insists. 
It was in the newspaper this morning that 
Harold was suspected of the robbery, and that 
he had been traced to Canada I ” Celia low- 
ered her voice as she led the way up the pol- 
ished oaken staircase. “ I begin to be afraid 
it was Harold ! He never seemed to care 
whether anything was right or wrong if he 
only got what he wanted, poor Harold ! When 
people get to needing so much money it seems 
to make them perfectly reckless. Mamma 
wants to start for Canada at once, but I’ve 


152 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS, 


persuaded her to wait until she finds out just 
where Harold is. Perhaps you can get her 
to take a little interest in the children.” 

Mrs. Bearse walked the floor of her room, 
tearful and dishevelled, and poured out a tor- 
rent of invective against Mr. Cyrus Whitney, 
and of pity for “ her poor, slandered, and 
hunted boy.” It was only when Mary Olive 
arose to take her leave, finding it quite use- 
less to stay, that her mind could he brought 
to dwell for a moment on the matter for which 
Mary Olive had been summoned. 

“ They’re dear things ; you won’t have any 
trouble with them, that is, if you have the 
least force or tact. Miss Tompkins hadn’t, 
and they never seemed to take to her. It’s 
only a matter of gently guiding their sweet 
little impulses.” And the children’s mother 
wept afresh, apparently in sympathy. 

You must begin Monday, and I shall expect 
you to stay all day. I paid Miss Tompkins 
twenty-five dollars a month and her board. 
I suppose I must say about thirty-five for you 
because you won’t board here.” 


UP-HILL WORK. 


153 


Maiy Olive had cherished vague hopes of 
a larger salary, Mrs. Bearse had wished to 
show such lavish generosity in the fitting up 
of Louly’s studio ; she had not yet learned 
that with people of lightly generous impulses, 
giving is apt to be more liberal than paying. 

“ They’re perfectly dreadful children, you 
know,” said Celia calmly, as she closed the 
door of her mother’s room. “All you can do 
with them is what poor Tompkins did, — keep 
them from breaking their necks, and from 
stabbing you with bonnet-pins. You see, if 
there’s any trouble, mamma will take their 
part.” 

Mary Olive went home with her courage 
so collapsed that she poured out her woes 
upon Sam, the very thing she had resolved 
not to do. Sam and Maiy Olive were begin- 
ning to understand each other, and Sam was 
feeling within him a chivalrous desire to stand 
between his sisters and the world ; he wasn’t 
going to be the man of the family for noth- 
ing ! The patches on the hall paper — Sam 
^vas working in the hall now — were wrinkled 


154 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


and askew. To this day Mary Olive cannot 
see them without remembering that day when, 
by her weakness, she added to the bitterness 
in Sam’s boyish heart, and to the temptation 
which was lying in wait for him. But she 
could not bear to dim her mother’s childlike 
hopefulness, which was in the ascendency in 
spite of fatigue and privation ; and as for 
Louly — Louly would not understand ; she 
was drawing those weeds. 

“ Never mind, Mary Olive, I’ll have money 
somehow ! ” said Sam in his gruffest voice, 
and with his heaviest scowl. 

Meanwhile Mary Olive’s good angel — whose 
nose turned up, and who was obliged to strug- 
gle with an inclination to envy — had worn 
her thinking-cap for a few moments, and then 
returned to her mother’s room. 

“ Mamma, what the children need is the 
kindergarten method. Why don’t you send 
Mary Olive to Miss Fletcher’s afternoon class 
to learn it? It would be a great thing for 
her because it’s all the fashion, and the chil- 
dren would develop so rapidly.” 


UP-HILL WORK, 


155 


“ Why, of course, of course ! I meant to 
have a kindergartner, and then I forgot,” said 
mamma eagerly. “ It will be just the thing 
for the dear things ; and I’ll pay her tuition.” 

“ I think she will like to be independent ; 
she can pay you afterwards,” said Celia. 

“She’s a bright girl, and a worker,” said 
the good angel to herself. “ She may get to 
be Miss Fletcher’s assistant, and the children 
can go there to school; it would be much 
better for them.” 

So, even while Mary Olive was bewailing, 
there was a little rift in her clouded sky. She 
heard of it with wondering gratitude when 
she went, schooled to stern endurance, to her 
duties Monday morning ; she thought that per- 
haps she had not quite understood that girl 
who seemed to take things so lightly. The 
kindergarten work was congenial, and opened 
a vista of new hopes and interests. It would 
not perhaps prove a royal road to the civiliza- 
tion of those spoiled children, but it was a 
novelty, and it interested them ; and except 
when the bitterness which she had long har- 


156 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


bored held sway, — it is so easy to receive 
such a guest, so difficult to drive it out! — 
Mary Olive was of good courage. 

For Sam there seemed to be no good angel 
with a promise of better things. He was as- 
sistant to the porters, and the servant of the 
firemen. He packed and handled heavy cases, 
he wheeled barrows, he swept floors and 
lighted fires, and ran of errands for every one 
in the establishment. He had planned to go 
to the evening high school, but his round of 
drudgery left him far too weary of mind and 
body. Brinck was not at the mill. Sam heard 
that he was ill ; he was subject to acute at- 
tacks, the result of his spinal disorder. 

Life went well, apparently, with Louly. She 
had not disdained the fripperies which Mrs. 
Bearse’s lavish generosity had provided for 
her studio. She had paid no heed to Mary 
Olive’s suggestions that some of the exqui- 
site hangings and dainty ornaments would re- 
lieve the dreary bareness of the cottage, in 
whose furnishing utility was the first consid- 
eration. The little bower of luxury seemed 


UP-HILL WORK. 


157 


queerly incongruous in the deserted old mill, 
which in its heyday had been devoted to 
stern utility. Celia disapproved of it as not 
having a work-day air, while it vaguely irri- 
tated Mary Olive to see with what a careless 
grace Louly adapted herself to her luxurious 
surroundings. Sketches of those Canterbury 
weeds were strewn over everything ; she was 
always working away at those weeds. 

It was two or three weeks after the studio 
was finished and furnished that Sam paid 
his first visit there. He went grimy from 
the mill, having got away earlier than usual 
on Saturday, afternoon. 

There was one good thing about Louly, — 
she never said that a fellow wasn’t clean, or 
ought to wipe his boots; and she was glad 
to see him, and invited him to sit down on 
her little yellow satin ottoman. She said, with 
a little quiver of her thin, finely curved lips, 
that she was afraid that she was the only 
one who was having good times, and, with 
a long-drawn breath, “ what if she shouldn’t 
get the prize after all?” Sam said, in his 


158 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


grimmest tone, that one didn’t always get the 
prize in this world. 

“ Somebody gets it ! ” said Louly eagerly ; 
and she joyfully repeated the compliments 
which Herr Seiderlich had paid her. 

“ But I know what hard times you are 
all having, and it worries me,” she contin- 
ued. “ And Mary Olive does the housework 
mornings and nights, and she is getting worn 
out with those dreadful children, and she 
has no time to make anything to wear, and 
Mary Olive loves pretty clothes, and — don’t 
tell, Sam, for I want to surprise her, I am 
going to dye her brown cashmere dress for 
her, and trim it with the ribbon off my old 
grenadine.” 

Sam didn’t know much about girls’ fixings, 
but he grunted approval of Louly’s under- 
taking, which she seemed to regard as a great 
one ; dyeing a dress certainly seemed very un- 
usual practical activity for Louly. “ I don’t 
feel satisfied with my design. I shall make it 
over a great many times yet ; but it will take 
time to do that,” Louly said. 


UP-HILL WORK. 


159 


“ Here is where I keep the best sketch 
I’ve done yet,” she added. “Isn’t it a queer 
little cubby-hole ? It was here already, where 
some part of the machinery came out, and it’s 
like a secret drawer; no one could ever find 
it. But Sam ! I wish Mrs. Bearse wouldn’t 
do such queer things ; see this.” 


160 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


CHAPTER VI. 

BEHIND THE DOOR. 

Louly drew out of her “ cubby-hole ” a tin 
padlocked box. “ She came here yesterday, in 
such a state of mind, to hide this box away; 
she said she had just found five thousand dol- 
lars, in government bonds, among her mother’s 
things, and she was determined that Cyrus 
Whitney shouldn’t get them ; she never meant 
to let the executor of her mother’s estate 
know anything about them. It doesn’t seem 
quite right, does it? That isn’t anything to 
me, of course, but I don’t like to have such 
things here; it makes me feel responsible. I 
told her I might run away with them, and 
she said she would rather I would than that 
Cyrus Whitney should have them. She said 
that five thousand dollars rightfully belonged 
to us ; for her mother meant us to have it. 


BEHIND THE DOOR. 


161 


I don’t see why he should contest his step- 
mother’s will; but it seems that she had all 
his father’s property, and there was an un- 
derstanding that his share should come to him 
when she died. O Sam, if we only had that 
five thousand dollars ! I think I realize now 
better than I could in Canterbury what it 
might mean to us.” 

Sam went out abruptly; he couldn’t trust 
himself to speak of that money that might 
have been theirs. Instead of going directly 
out of the building, he went through the dark 
corridor, and stood listening near the door of 
the room from whence the mysterious sounds 
had proceeded. He had almost come to the 
conclusion that Brinck had been taken ill 
there, and that the stupid old watchman had 
made a mystery of the matter only to tease 
him, or perhaps that Brinckley, who was 
“cranky,” as the mill-boys said, was sensi- 
tive about having any one hear his signs of 
distress. Nevertheless, he stood and listened; 
and presently he heard a sound as of some 
one turning heavily on a bed, with a smoth- 


162 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


ered sigh. Sam coughed as a sign that he 
was there if he were wanted. 

“Who are you?” called a cautious voice, 
after a moment’s hesitation. 

“A friend,” responded Sam firmly, in sol- 
dierly fashion, but with his heart beating like 
a trip-hammer. 

“If you’re a friend,” — the voice that was 
tremulous with weakness or anxiety broke 
suddenly, — “who are you? ” it added hoarsely. 
Sam hesitated for a moment, and then decided 
that it was more manly for a fellow to tell 
his name. 

“I’m Sam Pennock, from Canterbury,” he 
said. 

“ Oh, I know — you’re one of those coun- 
try cousins. You work in Whitney’s mill, 
don’t you? and I suppose you’re sold to him 
body and soul.” The tone was hard and bit- 
ter now. 

“I don’t think I could be sold,” said Sam 
slowly. 

“ Wait till you’re tried ! Didn’t you ever 
hear that every man has his • price ? ” said 


BEHIND THE DOOR. 


163 


the voice recklessly. “But I’ve got to trust 
you — I can’t die here like a rat in a hole! 
Then I shall know whether you’re sold or 
not. Or perhaps you’ve some decent feeling 
about 3^ou, and will burst open that door and 
help me to crawl downstairs. I’ll make it 
worth your while I ” The voice was a whisper 
hoarse with eagerness. “ Isn’t it enough for 
you to know that I am a prisoner here ? and 
that I’ll give you my word of honor (a slight 
falter here) that no harm will come of your 
letting me out ? I — I’ve suffered a lot here I ” 
It was a boyish voice, and it touched Sam’s 
boy heart. 

“I wish I could,” he said; “but you see 
I don’t know that I have any right.” 

There was a sound as if the prisoner had 
fallen back despairingly. He raised himself 
again suddenly. 

“Wouldn’t money give you any right?” 
he whispered eagerly. “But I don’t suppose 
a country gawk like you knows the value of 
money.” Sam drew a long breath ; he thought 
he did know the value of money. 


164 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLAItS. 


“ I couldn’t let you out for that,” he said 
gruffly. “ I don’t know what you may have 
done, or what you might do.” There was 
silence for the space of several minutes. 

“ I am awfully sorry for you,” said Sam, 
who was facing a situation of which he did 
not feel himself to be master; “if you would 
tell me who shut you up here, and what it’s 
for — you see, a fellow can’t burst other peo- 
ple’s doors open, and let out he doesn’t know 
whom.” 

“You are not as fond of taking responsi- 
bilities as my Pooh-Bah of a cousin Brinck- 
ley, are you? He’s always talking about his 
responsibilities. Now you want to know who 
I am, do you? I’m Harold Bearse, the bold 
burglar of whom all the town is talking. 
I’ve been tracked to Canada ; that’s the latest 
news I’ve seen in the papers about myself.” 

“ How — how did you get here ? ” stam- 
mered Sam. 

“ Brinck. It was rather good of him. I’ll 
give the — the enemy of mankind his due. 
(I suppose you didn’t become accustomed to 


BEHIND THE DOOE. 


165 


plain language in the green fields of Canter- 
bury ; so I’ll try not to use it.) That 
confounded watchman let his bullets fiy helter- 
skelter in the dark, and shot me in the leg. 
(You see I pass lightly over the robbery. I 
suppose you think you couldn’t steal; wait 
until you want money as badly as I did — 
money that ought to belong to you, and see.) 
Tliat watchman with his masterly activity 
telephoned to the old man and raised Brinck 
first ; he sleeps with one eye on the mill any- 
way, because the doctor told him his father was 
likely to have softening of the brain; that’s 
a secret, but I’m not keeping secrets just now. 
I managed to climb over that fence behind 
the great pile of lumber. Brinck was prowl- 
ing round with a lantern in search of the 
burglar, — he’d like to meet a burglar single- 
handed any time, and trust to his reasoning 
powers to overthrow him, — and he stumbled 
upon me. He had to stop awhile to think of 
his responsibilities ; but he decided not to give 
me up to the officers. He helped me over 
here, tore up his shirt first to bandage my 


166 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


leg. I don’t know how we ever got here ; 
the strength was pretty well gone out of his 
poor little crooked carcass, and I was in a dead 
faint when old Cary brought me up-stairs. He 
sleeps here, and Brinck roused him. I can’t 
buy him over — but then Brinck has more 
money.” 

And — and he keeps you here?” asked 
Sam, for the voice had ceased as if its owner 
were exhausted. 

“He’s trying to reconcile things with his 
reason and conscience, and it takes time,” said 
Harold, evidently finding a little solace for 
his woes in being grimly sarcastic. “He got 
a doctor for me in the first of it, — a student, 
I think, who wanted a chance to experiment, 
or else he had his price, for he didn’t ask 
any questions, — and he keeps me on all the 
luxuries of the season ; Cary gets them some- 
where, and papers and magazines and books 
that I never look at — don’t care for any- 
thing but the sporting news myself ; they 
never could make a mollycoddle of me. Think 
of a shaver like that Brinck having money 


BEHIND THE DOOR. 


167 


to do anything he likes with, and a fellow 
like me being kept so short tliat he’s forced 
to make a common thief of himself — ’t wasn't 
that though, you know, for Cyrus Whitney 
is robbing us. And what I’ve suffered in this 
place ! I'm nothing but a skeleton.” 

“Is he going to send you to — to prison?” 
asked Sam, with a thrill of pity in his voice. 

“ N — no — that is, how can any one tell 
what his little drivelling conscience will lead 
him to do ? ” (Harold’s quick ear had de- 
tected the pity, and that had modified his an- 
swer.) “He made me give up the money — 
that was when I thought I was going to die ; 
I wouldn’t do it now. But,” quickly, “you 
needn’t think I can’t pay you if you’ll help 
me to get away. I have money; my mother 
and Uncle Alvin keep hold of it till I’m of 
age, but they’ll be glad enough to pay for 
being saved from disgrace. Brinck would let 
me go, so he says, only he is afraid that I 
will run into evil courses ; the little canting 
rascal ! When his spine got that curve a par- 
son was spoiled. There’s no make believe 


168 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


about Lim, you know. I suppose he has wor- 
ried himself sick trying to decide whether to 
let me go or not; he’d be only too thankful 
to anybody who would let me out! ” There 
was silence for a moment after Harold’s eager 
voice ceased. 


SAM IS PUZZLED. 


169 


CHAPTER VII. 

SAM IS PUZZLED. 

“You’d better make up your mind pretty 
quick. Cary’s never off the scent for long,” 
suggested Harold. 

Sam was drawing one foot absently along 
the floor, and staring at the hand painted upon 
the little tin sign at the head of the stairs — 
“ Exit to Shrady Court ” — as if it were the 
finger of fate. 

“ You’ll only have to burst the door in, — 
it’s an old lock anyway, — and help me down- 
stairs. I can crawl home on the ice,” pleaded 
Harold. 

“ A fellow can’t — can’t always tell what 
to do,” burst out Sam. 

“ I suppose you’re afraid. I’ve found out 
now whether you’re sold to Whitney,” cried 
Harold tauntingly. 


170 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS, 


“It isn’t that,” answered Sam slowly. “If 
I knew what was riglit ” — 

“ Oh, you’re one of the canters too, are 
you?” sneered Harold. “Well, go home and 
take to your bed fussing over the right and 
wrong of it, like Brinck; and I’ll get des- 
perate, as I came near doing yesterday, and 
strip the bandage off my leg, and bleed to 
death ! ” 

Sam went slowly down-stairs, feeling as if 
the agony of disappointment that he had left 
behind him were clutching at his heart. 

“ If a fellow could only have plain sailing ! ” 
he muttered to himself. 

The outer door at the foot of the stairs was 
locked as well as bolted, and the key had been 
taken away. 

“ Brinck didn’t mean to have him get away,” 
Sam said to himself, as he retraced his steps — 
softly, not to arouse false hopes — through the 
dark corridor to the main staircase. 

Harold was a criminal against the law. How 
could he dare to release him ? He was a poor, 
wounded fellow, who had restored the stolen 


SAM IS PUZZLED. 


171 


money, who perhaps had been wronged by 
those overbearing Whitneys — did he not know 
well how overbearing they were ? How could 
he leave him there to suffer? The problem 
made Sam’s slow brain dizzy. 

The Misses Pennock were bidden to an ice 
fete on the other side of the river, or on that 
portion of it which adjoined the residence of 
one of the rich manufacturers, almost oppcr 
site the little cottage. The invitations were 
dainty, with a daintiness quite unknown to 
Canterbury, and in the most correct form. 
There was one for the little mother, and one 
for “Mr. Samuel Pennock,” which brought a 
sheepish grin to Sam’s face, and then a scowl 
because he had grinned. They would never 
know that the last invitation had cost much 
forcible argument, because the sender did think 
“ one ought to draw the line at a mill-boy, no 
matter whose relative he might be.” 

Mary Olive had heard at her kindergarten 
class what a very exclusive affair the ice fete 
was to be, and had not cherished the least ex- 


172 


FIVE THOUSANB DOLLARS. 


pectation of being invited. “It was Celia,” 
she said, with a little mistiness in her delighted 
eyes ; for Mary Olive was beginning to recog- 
nize her good angel. 

It was not that they cared so much to go 
to the fete ; the little mother said it was quite 
too soon after their bereavement for them 
to participate in the gayety (Canterbury had 
its conventionalities, which it called “ proper 
feeling ”) ; but it was good to feel that in 
this strange place there were sociable hands 
stretched out to them, that they were not to 
be shut out of good times. There were bon- 
fires along the river-bank ; the rope that en- 
closed a great expanse of ice was hung with 
Japanese lanterns ; and, wafted across the river, 
came the enticing strains of a band. The little 
mother, who had a childish delight in bright- 
ness and gayety, said faintly, at length, that 
she thought they might go and look on for a 
little while. Sam would have preferred to stay 
at home. He said that to go to a party, even 
in Canterbury, made him feel as if he had too 
many legs and arms ; but the man of the fam- 


SAM IS PUZZLED. 


173 


ily must make social as well as material sacri- 
fices, and Sam offered his arm manfully to his 
mother. 

Louly seemed wild with eagerness to go ; 
she talked a great deal about what she was 
to wear; but that was like Louly. What was 
not like Louly was to disappear just in the 
midst of a delightfully social time, when Celia 
had introduced almost all the young people 
she knew to them, and some skates were being 
provided for Mary Olive and Louly, who had 
left their old ones in Canterbury. There was 
a chorus of wondering exclamations until a 
little daughter of the house suggested that 
she had probably gone with Gladys, an older 
daughter, to look at her sketches. Gladys 
had disappeared also, and they had been talk- 
ing about the prize contest for which Gladys 
had also drawn a design. Just now drawing 
was sufficiently interesting to Louly to induce 
her to forego the delight of skating, so this 
explanation of her absence seemed probable. 
When nearly an hour afterward, Gladys ap- 
peared, having been to the house with a party 


174 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


that preferred dancing in the house to skat- 
ing, of which party Louly was not one, the 
matter assumed a different aspect. It was Sam 
who discovered this first, while his mother was 
talking with a group of matrons, and Mary 
Olive had skated to the far end of the en- 
closure ; and Sam instantly set out across the 
river homewards. Before Louly w\as missed 
he had seen a little solitary figure flitting over 
the ice, and wondered vaguely who it could be. 
Louly might have been ill he thought — though 
it would be like Louly to let people know if 
she were ill. He found Louly sitting, breath- 
less and panting, on the last of the little 
rickety steps that led from their garden to 
the river. She was resting her feet on an 
elaborate, swan-shaped, fur-lined sled. 

“Carry it back, will you, Sam?” she gasped, 
giving the sled a little push towards him. “It 
belongs to that tall Howard boy in the Rus- 
sian costume. I — I took it. If I had asked 
for it he would have wanted to come with 
me, or there would have been a great bother 
of questions. I had to come. I — I didn’t 


SAM IS PUZZLED, 


175 


feel quite right. And, Sam, I’m in great 
pain — in my wrist. I’m afraid I’ve sprained 
it.” 

“ How did you do it ? ” demanded Sam, 
feeling the injured member and finding it al- 
ready swollen. 

‘‘I — I — the sled was heavy, and — and it 
sort of jerked.” This was lame, but then 
Louly’s statements were apt to be a little 
lame and inconsequent. 

“ What did you take the sled for ? ” de- 
manded Sam. 

“ I could coast across — and it was so 
pretty.” Even this was not unlike Louly. 

“ You must have coasted a good deal to 
get so out of breath,” pursued matter-of-fact 
Sam. “And you couldn’t have been so very 
sick, or you wouldn’t have felt like it.” 

“ I feel better,” Louly drew a long breath, 
“ in spite of my wrist. I went away up the 
river, and coasted down.” 

“The sled isn’t intended for that; I don’t 
see how you could sit in it and make it go,” 
insisted Sam. 


176 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


“ I sat on the side and pushed with my 
foot,” said Louly impatiently. “Sam,” trem- 
ulously, “that’s my right wrist. I can’t draw 
another design, and there’s only a week now! 
I was just ready to do a perfect one — still, 
the last one is pretty good. There are dan- 
delion elves ; the puffy seed-balls are the heads, 
and they have such queer long-stem bodies ; 
and poppy ladies, and thistle grenadiers in a 
stiff row; there are so many queer figures to 
pick out that I’m sure children would go wild 
over such a nursery paper.” 

“ It’s a great pity to have gone and hurt 
your wrist,” said Sam discouragingly. 

“ Perhaps I shouldn’t have improved upon 
it. I’m pretty well satisfied,” said Louly. 
“ Anyway I couldn’t help it.” 

They sat in silence for a few moments, 
Sam feeling that life was offering quite too 
many problems to his slow brain, and that he 
might as well give up trying to guess what 
Louly had been “up to.” The bonfires made 
the whole expanse of ice between the two 
shores dazzlingly bright, and turned a great 


SAM IS PUZZLED. 


177 


yellow moon wanly white. In an interval 
between the band’s rollicking tunes, a dull 
booming sound came to their ears. 

“ That’s a big crack in the ice,” said Sam, 
and thought of the time when Aaron Bridge 
was drowned in the Canterbury millpond. 

“ It isn’t dangerous, is it ? ” asked Louly. 

“ I don’t think so,” said Sam. “ But it’s 
weakening, and all those fires and that crowd 
have an effect. It’s awfully thick ice ; it’s 
been such a cold winter — and look at the 
snow on those hills ! If there should come 
a sudden thaw now ! They say it’s raining 
up at Quinnebaug. Once, a good while ago, 
all the wharves and warehouses along here 
were carried away in a freshet. When they 
rebuilt them they made the wharves stronger, 
and set the warehouses farther back.” 

“If I hadn’t dyed Mary Olive’s dress this 
afternoon I couldn’t have done it,” said Louly, 
who found her sprained wrist more engrossing 
than thaws and freshets. “ Sam, don’t you tell 
Mary Olive yet,” she added eagerly, “for I’m 
afraid it’s streaked; she’s depending upon it 


178 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS, 


for a best dress, and I’m afraid it’s streaked ! ” 
There was a sob in Louly’s voice. 

“ How silly girls are ! always thinking of 
clothes,” reflected Sam. 

“ You’d better come into the house and let 
me put some arnica on your wrist. I don’t 
see how you sprained it,” he said. 

“We can’t get in; Mary Olive has the key 
in her pocket. I — I tried to get in at the 
window, and that hurt my wrist.” 

Here was another explanation ! Sam’s scowl 
grew heavy as he looked at her. But the fires 
were burning lower, and a cloud had drifted 
over the moon, and Louly was unconscious of 
the scowl. She was standing now, looking up 
at the old mill, gaunt and black in the wan- 
ing, lurid light. 

“ The old mill is rather too near the river 
if there should be a freshet, isn’t it ? ” she 
said half-absently. “ I think mother and Mary 
Olive are coming. I hear voices. Do carry 
the sled back, Sam ; that Howard boy will be 
sure to want it. Sam, don’t tell Mary Olive 
about the dress, for I’m really afraid it’s 


SAM IS PUZZLED. 


179 


streaked.” Louly suddenly put her handker- 
chief to her eyes and began to sob and weep. 

The brown cashmere had dyed streaked ! 
Mary Olive espied it hanging in the wood- 
shed early the next morning, although Louly 
had tried to hide it behind the tall clothes- 
horse hung with the ironing-blanket. Mary 
Olive shut her lips tightly ; but they would 
open to say that she “never saw such a look- 
ing thing,” and she “should think Louly 
might have known better than to touch it.” 
Then she kissed Louly contritely, and said 
it was very good of her, and she could dip it 
again, and perhaps it wouldn’t be streaked. 
Sam whistled shrilly, and went off pondering 
upon the silliness of girls. 

But he had more important matters to re- 
flect upon. The Quinnebaug rainstorm had 
come down the river, and there were already 
running brooks in the Milbury streets, and 
people were prophesying that the ice would 
go out in a few days. It was a gala day in 
Milbury when the ice went out; but once in 
a while the river “ got on the rampage ” as 


180 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


Dan Philibeg, one of the workmen at Whit- 
ney’s mill, said. Now a freshet was feared 
up at Quinnebaug, and that might mean dan- 
ger for Milbury. Sam listened anxiously ; he 
knew very little about freshets. In Canterbury 
there was only Tumble Down Brook to “ get 
on the rampage ; ” and the worst damage that 
ever did was to flood Miss Fify Bridge’s cel- 
lar, causing her to obtain sufficient damages 
from the town to buy an accordion, and have 
her photographs taken. 

Dan Philibeg shook his head, and prophesied 
that people who lived on the river would be 
taking to their roofs before many days. Did 
they remember the time when the Quinnebaug 
Millerite meeting-house came plunging down 
the river with the bell ringing in the belfry, 
and a crowing rooster perched upon the ridge- 
pole ? And below Milbury — ah, there were 
things in the river to make one shut one’s 
eyes. 

But every one knew that Dan was a croaker ; 
they laughed at him in the mill. Before he 
went home Sam wrote a note to Brinck on a 


SAM IS PUZZLED. 


181 


piece of wrapping-paper with a stubb of a pen- 
cil, but the words were strong. It was cruel 
to keep Harold imprisoned in the old mill; 
it might be dangerous. He should feel it to 
be his duty to inform the proper authori- 
ties. He carried the note to Mr. Whitney’s 
door. His anxiety had increased so that he 
boldly asked to see Brinckley — spoken words 
were stronger than written ones. But the ser- 
vant said he was not well enough to see any 
one at night. Sam said he would come in 
the morning, and then turned back and left 
the note — written words were stronger than 
spoken ones that came too late. 


182 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

AN EVENTFUL NIGHT. 

The sun shone brightly the next morning, 
and Sam felt as if his fears had been needless. 
Two days passed, with no answer from Brinck. 
On the third day it was warm and misty 
and drizzling; it was reported that it was 
still raining at Quinnebaug. People came to 
the river to see the ice go out, but they 
watched in vain. 

In the evening Sam went out and looked 
anxiously up the river ; there was a trickling 
of water, it seemed to come from every di- 
rection, and occasionally that dull booming 
sound that meant a fissure in the ice. Sam 
wandered out into the street to see if he 
could discover any signs of anxiety. Every- 
thing was as usual, except that Toby Wing, 
the lame cobbler, had hauled an old mud- 


AN EVENTFUL NIGHT. 


183 


scow from the flats and was fastening it to 
his back porch ; but Toby was half-brother to 
Dan Philibeg, and known to have, like him, 
an anxious mind. 

There was a service in the little mission 
chapel that was set down among the ware- 
houses and workmen’s houses ; and Sam leaned 
against the fence for a while, and listened 
to the music, and then went quietly home 
and to bed. Sam dreamed that Miss Fify 
Bridge had turned into one of Louly’s thistle 
grenadiers, and was bearing down upon his 
bed in Toby Wing’s mud-scow, and she said 
that the five thousand dollars which should 
have been theirs had been spent by the Can- 
terbury selectmen in damming Tumble Down 
Brook. Suddenly the mud-scow struck the 
bed with a great crash, and Sam jumped up. 
He dressed himself as quickly as possible, 
hearing a roaring and crashing and a confu- 
sion of voices outside. The. moon had strug- 
gled through the mist; and under it the river 
seemed full of great white, leaping, struggling 
monsters ; and the river was everywhere. Sam 


184 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


walked into it only a few feet from his own 
door. The old mill seemed to have been 
carried away, and to stand in the midst of 
the river, heaped around with plunging ice- 
blocks. 

As his eyes became accustomed to the faint 
light, Sam saw other things besides the glitter- 
ing white monsters in the river; there were 
huge logs and barrels and hencoops and boxes ; 
a woodshed came down intact with what 
looked like a man clinging to the roof. Sam 
heard some one say that a dam at the falls 
just below Quinnebaug had given way. He 
made his way with great difficulty over the 
piled-up ice-blocks to the old mill. He slipped 
and fell headlong more than once, and was 
drenched to his neck in water. 

Up to the very top of the great door in the 
rear the waves were washing ; but at the side 
there seemed to be as yet only ice-blocks, over 
which he might climb. It was a long and 
laborious journey — that short space between 
the cottage and the old mill ; his muscles, 
toughened by hard work and harder sports. 


AN EVENTFUL NIGHT. 


185 


were cramped and aching, and his hands torn 
and bleeding. The side door was open, and 
into the entry way and upon the stairs the 
ice-blocks were hurled. At the head of the 
stairs a voice that sounded querulous and 
feeble was calling, “ Cary ! Cary ! ” In his 
strong arms Sam raised a small prostrate fig- 
ure from the stairs. 

“Put me down instantly!” said Brinck’s 
thin, imperious voice. “Is it you, Sam Pen- 
nock ? ” There was an unmistakable thrill of 
relief in the voice now. “ Rouse Cary, can’t 
you? He is in there — Harold Bearse I It’s 
not your affair, you know ! but they gave 
me your note to-day; they thought I was too 
ill for letters before. I didn’t know it was 
dangerous ; but to-night I heard a man under 
my window say the fiood was coming, and I 
got away. Where are you going ? ” 

“We can’t wait for Cary, you know,” said 
Sam. 

“ There’s a lantern and matches at the foot of 
the stairs. Cary keeps them there. I couldn’t 
climb over the ice ; you get it — quick ! ” 


186 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


Sam had found the lantern almost before 
Brinck had done speaking. Brinck had a 
key to the little room, and he opened the 
door, while Sam held the lantern so that its 
light pierced every nook and corner. The 
room was empty ! 

“ He’s got away,” gasped Brinck ; “ but the 
door was locked — and the outer door; I un- 
locked that ” — 

Sam had gone with the lantern ; and Brinck 
stood alone in the darkness, calling wildly for 
Cary. Around through the dark corridor 
rushed Sam ; the building seemed trembling 
to its foundations with the rush of mighty 
waters. Sam felt that at any moment it 
might collapse ; Brinck was there helpless and 
alone, and yet there was something in Louly’s 
studio in that tin box in the “ cubby-hole ” 
that he meant to have ! Was it of that he 
had thought all the time more than of Harold 
Bearse? He had meant to save Harold first, 
no one could say that he had not; but — was 
it Mary Olive who had said that money meant 
everything? He had found that it was true 


AN EVENTFUL NIGHT. 


187 


in humiliations and miseries ; in the hopeless 
shutting out of all chances, he had found it 
true ! 

It was one of the crises of life when the 
real self is dominant. Sam burst open the 
door of Louly’s studio ; the lantern threw a 
wan and ghostly light on all the pretty frip- 
peries, as Sam trampled upon and ruthlessly 
overturned them in his haste. The floor 
seemed to reel under his feet ; this wing 
would go flrst — and soon. He snatched the 
little tin box from its hiding-place, and thrust 
it into his pocket. It would have gone down 
in the flood; the bonds would have been lost; 
he might as well have them ! Mrs. Bearse 
had said she would rather Louly would have 
them than Cyrus Whitney. There was just 
five thousand dollars ; it was Aunt Louisa 
Whitney’s, and she had willed it to them ! 
Sam was rushing back to Brinck while these 
thoughts were in his mind. He found that 
Cary had appeared bewildered, and calling up- 
on the saints to witness that he was guiltless 
in the matter of Harold’s disappearance. . 


188 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


“It’s in the night toime he disappeared en- 
toirely, four nights ago,” said Cary, “ and me 
wid the kay in me pocket,” and he produced 
his key in proof of his assertion ; “ and the 
door wide open and not a stitch iv him in- 
side whin I brings his breakfast ! ” 

Cary was carrying Brinck down-stairs in his 
arms by this time, but at the outer door he 
stopped. Water was now pouring into the 
hall, and the great mass of ice-blocks in the 
court was disintegrating. 

“No man iv me weight could thrust him- 
self ” — began Cary. The building shook so 
that his sentence was cut short, and Cary 
began to rehearse his sins and beg for mercy. 
Sam thrust him aside, and half-dragged, half- 
carried Brinck out on the tossing, shifting 
blocks. Where he had crossed from the cot- 
tage was now a whirlpool of water. Under 
his feet the blocks were drifting apart. There 
was one chance — a desperate leap to a huge 
flat cake of ice that was floating along with 
the current; and Sam made it. He landed 
safely with his burden ; but Brinck was hurt 


AN EVENTFUL NIGHT. 


189 


so that he groaned with pain, and after a 
strong effort to hold himself upright dropped 
his head upon Sam’s knee and fainted. The 
ice-cake drifted along down the river in mo- 
mentary danger of being sunk by plunging 
heaps of ice, or wrecked by collision with 
some of the drifting dSbris, Brinck opened his 
eyes and shivered ; his clothing was drenched, 
and the night air was cold. Sam took off his 
own coat, and wrapped it around him. 

“ How dared you help Harold Bearse to get 
away? Of course I know that it was you! 
You will be discharged from my father’s mill 
directly I ” came in Brinck’s feeble, arrogant 
little voice out of the darkness. “It makes 
no difference what — what you are doing for 
me now, even if you have saved my life,” 
persisted the feeble voice. “ You had no 
right to meddle in my affairs. Did you ever 
read ‘Ninety-Three,’ that story of Victor 
Hugo’s about the gun that got loose on the 
vessel’s deck? A sailor risked his life to se- 
cure it and save other people’s lives, but he was 
shot for disobeying orders. That was fine ! ” 


190 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


“You’d better be sure that I have saved 
your life before you go into highfalutin,” said 
Sam dryly. “We’re likely to go under at 
any minute.” 

“ Where is Harold Bearse now ? ” was 
Brinck’s only response to this announcement; 
an unexpected one to Sam, who had said to 
himself that the little braggart would show 
the white feather as soon as he understood 
the danger. 

A crash sounded above the ceaseless swash 
and jar, and suddenly their ice-raft rode on 
tumultuous waves. Sam looked behind him 
in the direction of the noise. In the faint 
moonlight, still shining through mist, he saw 
a great gap in the sky where the tall wing 
of the old mill had risen ; that had been 
swept away ; Louly’s studio was gone — and 
the rest of the building was left. Sam felt 
the tin box in his pocket with a thrill of ex- 
ultation. Now no one would ever know, — to 
Sam’s mind bonds were like bank-notes, and 
no more easily traced, — it seemed almost 
providential ! 


AN EVENTFUL NIGHT. 


191 


He felt renewed hope and courage ; and yet 
there was nothing to do but to drift, and the 
danger was increased by the flotsam from the 
mill. They were nearing the shore now. 
Sam kept himself prepared to jump to a sta- 
tionary raft of ice or lumber whenever it was 
practicable ; but it was only a very short and 
safe leap that he dared to undertake with 
Brinck in his arms, and he was forced to 
forego many a chance that would have meant 
safety to himself alone. They were drifting 
more rapidly now, and in clearer water, as 
the river widened; at this rate they would 
soon reach the open sea, and then — 

Yet there had not come to Sam the temp- 
tation to leap from the perilous raft and save 
himself, leaving Brinck to his fate. The real 
Sam was uppermost ; but at least — Sam said 
thank God I in remembering it afterward — 
at least that possibility was not in him. 
Ahead of them was a great “jam” of logs 
reaching to the shore ; their ice-raft might drift 
just outside ; it might be caught and held, 
and that would mean safety. Sam waited and 


192 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS, 


watched breathlessly. It missed ! — no, it was 
caught by one end, drifted in towards the 
shore, and was lodged safely against the great 
“jam” of logs. Brinck’s querulous voice went 
on asking questions about Sam’s share in 
Harold Bearse’s escape. Sam was uncertain 
whether he had realized the danger. His 
narrow, morbid mind seemed unable to harbor 
more than one idea. Sam scarcely heard him. 
That tin box in his pocket was becoming all 
the universe. “ For the life is more than 
meat,” he recalled the anthem that the choir 
had sung at the mission chapel last night — 
was it only last night? it seemed ages ago 
and universes distant ! That sentence from the 
anthem kept ringing in his ears. Did it mean 
that money was not everything? How could 
he restore those bonds? He did not know 
whether they rightfully belonged to Mrs. 
Bearse or to the executor of the estate. 

But it was queer, crouching there in the 
darkness, wet and shivering, with Brinck’s 
querulous complaints and threatenings running 
on endlessly, with that fierce temptation buf 


AN EVENTFUL NIGHT. 


193 


feting him; above everything, a strain of in- 
sistent music, rang that saying of the old, old 
Book, “ For the life is more than meat.” Per- 
haps the reason it had seized upon him so 
was that it was like the comfort his father 
gave to his mother when she felt the small 
stings of poverty, “ Life is larger than that.” 

“Was it larger — larger even than money? 
Brinck fell asleep exhausted by his hardships ; 
and Sam held the boy’s head upon his knee, 
and crouched, cramped and aching, watching 
for the first glimmering of light that would 
enable him to make his way over the logs to 
the shore. It was but precarious footing when 
at length he dared to undertake it, carrying 
Brinck, the boy’s arms clasped tightly about 
his neck ; but when the shore was reached 
there were ready hands to help him. Mr. 
Cyrus Whitney’s carriage was at the cottage 
door ; something that seemed to Sam the dis- 
tracted ghost of that stern and dignified gentle- 
man seized Brinck, and wept over him. Cary 
had reported his rescue, and the two boys had 
been sought for all along the river. 


194 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. 


Sam wished to hurry away; he said to him- 
self that he must restore those bonds before 
he ate or slept. He knew the real Sam 
Pennock now, and he did not dare to trust 
him ! But they clung to him — his mother, 
and the girls, and that cold-hearted Mr. Cyrus 
Whitney held both his hands in his own. 

“ I meant to help you along,” he said ; “ but 
I thought it better to find out what there was 
in you. I meant to give you a chance ; be sure 
I mean it now ! ” 

It was at this point that Brinck, white and 
bewildered, but always Brinck, poured out the 
story of Harold Bearse’s captivity and release. 
“ It was he who let him out ! and he had no 
right,” he cried fiercely, glowering at Sam. 

“No, it wasn’t Sam; it was I!” said Louly 
calmly ; “ he was so miserable, poor fellow, and 
he said he would never do it again. I opened 
the door; my studio door-key just fitted the 
lock. I had to drag him down-stairs, and — 
and boost him out of the window, and that’s 
how I sprained my wrist. I carried him home 
on young Howard’s Russian sled. You ought 


SAVED Mrs. Bearse’s Bonds,” He said. 


f 


i 








AN EVENTFUL NIGHT. 


195 


to have seen his mother ! I didn’t think it was 
any harm,” added Louly meekly. 

“You — you’re a girl! I never know what 
to make of ’em I ” said Brinck, as if that were 
the acme of accusation. 

The little mother cried at the thought of 
Harold’s mother’s joy; and she wondered with 
a pang, as Mr. Whitney carried Brinck to the 
carriage, how long he would have a son. 

“ Sam ! my design — if you had only thought 
of it ! ” wailed Louly. “ Can any one have lost 
more than that in the flood? I might have 
won the prize ! and now my wrist is sprained, 
and the designs must be sent in the day after 
to-morrow.” 

He might have saved the design if those 
bonds had not crowded everything else out of 
his mind, Sam reflected ruefully. “ I saved 
Mrs. Bearse’s bonds,” he said gruffly, drawing 
the tin box from his pocket. 

“Saved what?” gasped Louly. “Oh — oh! 
my design ! Mrs. Bearse carried the bonds 
away the day before the fSte, She said she was 
afraid the mill would take fire with all those 


196 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLABS. 


bonfires and lights ; she was afraid it wasn’t 
a safe place anyway, and she gave me the 
box. I wanted one with a padlock for my 
designs. Oh, here it is ! my beautiful sketch, 
all safe and sound ! ” 

Louly wept for joy, and then threatened to 
faint, and Mary Olive somewhat scornfully 
brought burnt feathers. Sam felt obliged to 
retire to the woodshed to reflect; he told his 
mother that he could not yet bring his mind 
to the changing of his clothes. Slow Sam had 
been through a profound experience. 

“ You must have had a dreadful night,” said 
his mother, when at length Sam had changed 
his wet clothes and was drinking a cup of 
coffee. 

“I — I got acquainted with Sam Pennock,” 
said Sam hoarsely. But not even his mother 
ever knew the whole story. After all, it was 
Gladys Folliott whose design won the prize — 
Gladys Folliott who did not need the scholar- 
ship in the least. But while they were fearing 
that Louly would be broken-hearted, she came 
in with her face aglow, and a letter in her hand. 


AN EVENTFUL NIGHT. 


197 


“ They say my design is original and charm- 
ing ; if I had not lacked training I should have 
won the prize. They will buy the design, and 
they ask me to furnish others ! Celia knows 
a girl who earns six hundred dollars a year in 
that way ! Mary Olive, I sha’n’t be such a 
burden any more! It’s been so hard for you 
— and sometimes it has seemed as if I couldn’t 
bear it I ” 

“ Louly, I’ve been so mean and horrid! ” fal- 
tered Mary Olive. “ I thought you didn’t 
care ! I — I didn’t understand.” 

Ah, the old French proverb is so wise, — 
Comprendre o'* e^t par dormer ! 

“ Celia says, too, that Mr. Whitney has been 
to see her mother, and they think that, after 
all, the will may stand,” pursued Louly breath- 
lessly. “ Wouldn’t it be strange if we should 
get our money after all, just as we have learned 
how to do without it?” To learn how to do 
without it had been to learn some of the hid- 
den things of God, — the courage, the simple 
faith, and the charity that make life good even 
in toil and struggle. 


198 


FIVE THOUSAND DOLLABS. 


“ I rather guess, said slow Sam, in the Can- 
terbury drawl of which the girls were trying to 
break him, “I rather guess that money isn’t 
everything, after all ! ” 


THE RAVELLED MITTEN. 

[Reprinted from Harper's Round Table, by permission of 
Harper & Brothers.] 





THE RAVELLED MITTEN. 


1 . 

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY. 

It had begun to look as if no one would 
go to Viola Pitkin's birthday party ; it had 
been snowing for two days, and the drifts in 
some places were as high as a man’s head. 
Patty Peiiey had tried to take an interest in 
the new lace pattern that she was crocheting, 
and in the paper lamp-shade she was making, 
for which Ruby Nutting had taught her to 
make roses that almost smelled sweet, they 
were so natural, and it was all in vain; and 
she quite envied Anson, who was trying to 
draw the buff kitten stuck into the leg of 
Uncle Reuben’s boot. The kitten’s squirm- 
ing and the old cat’s frantic remonstrances 
199 


200 


THE RAVELLED MITTEN. 


were preventing the picture from being a suc- 
cess ; but Anson was highly entertained, and 
didn’t seem to care whether he went to the 
party or not. It was just when Patty was 
feeling irritated by this indifference that Uncle 
Reuben came in, and she heard him stamping, 
and shaking his clothes, in the entry, and say- 
ing, “ Whew, this is a night ! ” Then her 
spirits went down to zero. But the very first 
thing that Uncle Reuben said when he opened 
the door was, — 

' “ I’ve told Pelatiah to get out the big sled, 
and hitch up the black mare, and you’ll get 
to your party if the snow is deep. And the 
sled is large ; you’d better pick up all the 
youngsters you can along the way.” 

Now, that was like Uncle Reuben as he used 
to be, not as he had been since Dave, his only 
son, ran away ; since then he had not seemed 
to think there was anything but gloom and 
sadness in the world. Indeed, Dave’s going 
had taken the heart out of the good times all 
over Butternut Corner. He was only sixteen, 
and a good boy, — his mother had meant that 


THE BIRTHDAY PARTY. 


201 


he should be a minister, — but he got into 
the company of some wild fellows down at 
Bymport, and of Alf Coombs, a wild fellow 
nearer home, and then he had run away from 
home under circumstances almost too dreadful 
to tell. Burton’s jewellery store at Bymport 
had been broken into and robbed of watches 
and jewellery, and the next morning Dave and 
Alf Coombs had disappeared. They had been 
seen around the store that night ; Dave had not 
come home until almost morning. The boys 
had been gone nearly two months now, and 
the suspicion against them had become almost 
a certainty in most people’s minds ; indeed, it 
was reported that the sheriff had a warrant 
for their arrest, but as yet had not been able 
to find them. 

With such trouble weighing upon them, 
Patty had felt as if it were almost wicked 
to wish to go to Viola Pitkin’s party; but 
Aunt Eunice had said, with the quiver about 
her patient mouth that always came there 
when she referred to Dave, that the inno- 
cent must not suffer for the guilty; and she 


202 


TEE RAVELLED MITTEN. 


had told Barbara, the “hired girl,” to roast 
a pair of chickens, and make some of her 
famous cream-cakes also; for it was to be a 
surprise party, and each guest was to carry 
a basket of goodies for the supper. 

And now Uncle Reuben had planned for 
them to go, in spite of the snow-drifts ; so 
Patty began to feel that it was not wrong to 
be light-hearted under the circumstances. 

“ Take all the youngsters you can pack 
on,” repeated Uncle Reuben, as Patty and 
Anson settled themselves on the great sled, 
and Pelatiah cracked his whip over the old 
horse ; “ only I wouldn’t stop at the foot of 
the hill,” — Uncle Reuben’s face darkened 
suddenly as he said this, — “ we’ve had about 
enough of Coombses.” 

Patty’s heart sank a little, for she liked 
Tilly Coombs. They were rough and poor 
people, — the Coombs family, — “ back folks,” 
who had moved to the Corner only the sum- 
mer before. The father drank, and the mother 
was an invalid, and it was the son Alf who 
was supposed to have had an evil influence 


THE BIRTHDAY PARTY. 


203 


over Dave. Patty thought it probable that 
Tilly had been invited to the surprise party, 
because Ruby Nutting, the doctor’s daughter, 
who had planned the party, would be sure 
to ask her. Poor people who would be likely 
to be slighted, and stray animals that no one 
wanted, — those were the ones that Ruby 
Nutting thought of first. 

Along slid the great sled with its jingling 
bells, and out of her gate at the foot of 
the hill ran Tilly Coombs — the very first pas- 
senger. Patty couldn’t help it. She didn’t 
disobey Uncle Reuben’s injunction not to stop ; 
Tilly ran and jumped on. 

“You’ll let me go with you, won’t you?” 
she panted. “ I couldn’t bear to miss it when 
she asked me ! Some folks wouldn’t, but she 
did. And I never went to a party in all 
my life ! I couldn’t bring anything but some 
doughnuts.” Tilly opened her small basket, 
and by the light of Pelatiah’s great lantern 
Patty saw the eager face darken suddenly. 
“I made ’em m3^self, and Pm afraid they’re 
only middling. Doughnuts will soak fat. 


204 


THE RAVELLED MITTEN, 


though, won’t they ? ” she added anxiously, 
as Patty gazed doubtfully at the soggy lumps 
laid carefully in the folds of a ragged nap- 
kin. “I never made any before.” 

It was altogether an affair of first times 
with Tilly — a happier thing in the way of 
party-going than of doughnut-making! 

“They’re very nicely fiavored,” said Patty, 
tasting critically ; “ and where there are so 
many things nobody will notice if they’re not 
— not so very light.” 

Tilly’s sharp, anxious face brightened a 
little; but she heaved a sigh and covered 
her doughnuts quickly as the sled stopped 
to take on Rilly Parkhurst and her cousins, 
the Stillman boys, and Kathie Loomis, who 
was visiting Rilly. The Sage boys came next, 
and Delia Sage, who was sixteen and had 
taught school, but was just as full of fun as 
if she were young. The jingling of the bells 
was almost drowned in chatter and laughter; 
and when Ruby Nutting joined it, she was 
greeted with a cheering that, as Pelatiah said, 
“must ’a’ cracked the mill-pond.” 


THE BIRTHDAY PARTY, 205 

The crowd increased; the baskets were all 
huddled together upon the seat with Pelatiah, 
and under the seat, and in the middle of 
the sled ; no one could keep hold of his 
own, but there was no fear but that they would 
all know their own when they reached Viola’s 
house. 

Suddenly Ruby Nutting was missed. She 
hadn’t been as gay as usual; generally Ruby 
could be depended upon to stir up every 
one’s wits and make the dullest party merry; 
but to-night she had been sitting in a corner 
talking in a low tone with Alvan Sage. 
Now she had disappeared; and Alvan Sage, 
looking very much surprised and bewildered 
himself, said that she had slipped off when 
they were going a little slowly up the hill, 
just as Pelatiah had held the lantern down 
to see if there was anything the matter with 
the horse’s foot ; she had said she would 
wait until Horace Barker’s sleigh came along; 
either she thought the sled was too crowded, 
or she wanted to see some one who was 
coming with the Barkers. The latter explana- 


206 


THE RAVELLED MITTEN. 


tion was probable enough, for Chrissy Barker 
was on the “ committee of arrangements,” and 
had helped Ruby about the preparations. 

So no one thought much more about it, 
although it didn’t seem like Ruby to go off 
without saying anything. The sled party was 
the first to reach Viola’s, and it was great 
fun to see her perfect surprise and delight 
when they trooped in. They all thought 
that Ruby Nutting should have been there 
then. 

Patty had a surprise that was not pleasant. 
When her basket was carried in the cover 
was open, the cream-cakes were all jammed 
and half spoiled, and the two fine roast chick- 
ens were gone ! 

“ See here ! you can catch the thief by his 
mitten ! ” cried one of the boys. The rim 
of the basket was broken, probably by the 
thief in his haste, and to one sharply jagged 
end was attached a long, long string of red 
worsted. “Who has a ravelled mitten?” 

The color came and went in Tilly Coombs’s 
sharp, elfish little face; then she thrust her 


THE BIKTHDAY PARTY. 207 

hand into her pocket as if she was thrust- 
ing her mittens deep into it. Patty Perley 
happened to be standing close beside her, 
and saw her. 

Patty was mortified to have come to the 
surprise party with only a few half-spoiled 
cream-cakes ; but she was kind-hearted, and 
her first thought was a pitying one. 

“ They must be so very poor ! Tilly wanted 
them for her sick mother,” she said to her- 
self. 

How Tilly could have taken the chickens 
from the basket, and where she could have 
concealed them, was a mystery. But Uncle 
Reuben believed that all the Coombs family 
were thievish and sly ; perhaps he was right, 
and Tilly was used to doing such things. But 
even Uncle Reuben would not be very hard 
upon a girl who had stolen delicate food for 
her sick mother. 

“'Sh! — ’sh! don’t say anything about it! 
It is of no consequence,” she whispered to 
some girls and boys who were loudly wonder- 
ing and guessing about the mysterious theft. 


208 


THE RAVELLED MITTEN. 


Then they all went into the sitting-room, 
and the Virginia reel, the old-fashioned dance 
with which Butternut Corner festivities almost 
always began, was danced, and no one thouglit 
any more of the stolen chickens. 

Ruby Nutting had come by this time, and 
she led the dance ; as usual she was the life of 
the good time. She had come in Horace Bar- 
ker's sleigh, and she gayly evaded the wonder- 
ings and reproaches of the party she had left. 
As the dance ended, Berta Treadwell beck- 
oned slyly to Patty. Berta was Viola Pitkin’s 
cousin, who had come all the way from Cali- 
fornia to visit her; she and Patty had “taken 
to ” each other at once. 

“ I want you to see such a funny thing ! ” 
whispered Berta, drawing Patty out into the 
back entry. “ That queer-looking girl they 
call Tilly, with the wispy black hair and the 
faded cotton dress, asked me to lend her a pair 
of knitting-needles ! I got grandma’s for her ; 
and she snatched them out of my hands, she 
was so eager. ‘ You needn’t tell anybody that 
1 asked you for ’em, either,’ she said, in that 


THE BIRTHDAY PARTY. 


209 


sharp way of hers. I had such a curiosity to 
know what she was going to do with them that 
I watched her. After a while, when the reel 
was begun, and she thought no one was look- 
ing, she slipped out through the wood-shed 
into the barn. Come and peep through the 
crack ! ” 

Patty followed Berta softly through the 
wood-shed, and looked through a chink in the 
rough board partition into the barn. 

On an inverted bucket, with a lantern hung 
upon a nail over her head, sat Tilly Coombs 
diligently knitting. The barn was cold; the 
cattle’s breaths made vapors, and there was a 
glitter of frost around the beams. Tilly was 
muffled in a shawl, but her face looked pinched 
and blue. 

“ What is she knitting ? It looks like a red 
mitten,” whispered Berta. “Is she so indus- 
trious? To think of leaving a party on a 
winter night to go out to the barn and knit! 
Do you think we ought to leave her there in 
the cold ? I should think she must be crazy I ” 

Patty was drawing Berta back through tlie 


210 


THE RAVELLED MITTEN. 


wood-shed eagerly, in silence. Berta had not 
heard about the ravelled mitten; she did not 
know that Tilly was trying to knit it into 
shape again so it would never be known that 
it was her mitten that was ravelled. 

“ I know why she is doing it,” said Patty, 
“ though I don’t see why she couldn’t have 
waited until she got home; but I suppose she 
is awfully anxious. Berta, don’t say that we 
saw her, or anything about the needles, to any- 
body. That will be kind to her, and she is 
so poor. Whatever you hear, don’t say any- 
thing.” 

“I’m sure I don’t want to say anything to 
hurt her,” answered Berta a little resentfully; 
for she did think Patty might have told her all 
about it. “But I must say I think society in 
Butternut Corner is a little mixed.” 

“ Ruby asked her,” explained Patty. “ I 
think it was right ; Tilly never went to a party 
before.” 

“Her way of enjoying herself at a party is 
a little queer,” said Berta unsympathetically. 

And Patty thought she did not feel quite 


THE BIRTHDAY PARTY. 


211 


SO Sony as she had done that Berta was going 
back to California the next day. 

She thought she would tell Ruby Nutting. 
Ruby would understand, and pity Tilly; but 
before she had a chance, while Horace Barker 
was singing a college song and Ruby was play- 
ing the accompaniment on the piano, a sudden 
recollection struck her that sent the color from 
her face. Aunt Eunice’s spoons ! 

Aunt Eunice had said that there were never 
spoons enough to go round at a surprise party, 
and Viola Pitkin’s mother was her intimate 
friend, so she wished to help her all she could, 
and she put a dozen spoons into the basket, — 
the solid silver ones that had been Grand- 
mother Oliver’s, — and charged Patty to take 
care of them. And it was not until she over- 
heard Mrs. Pitkin whisper to Viola that she 
wasn’t sure that there were sauce-plates enough 
that Patty remembered the spoons. 

She had a struggle to repress a cry of dis- 
may — those spoons were so precious ! Uncle 
Reuben had demurred when they were put 
into the basket; but Aunt Eunice was proud. 


212 


THE RAVELLED MITTEN. 


and always liked to give and lend of her best. 
Patty felt as if she must cry out and de- 
nounce Tilly when she crept slyly in behind 
broad-backed Uncle Nathan Pitkin, and slyly 
warmed her benumbed hands at the fire. But 
Patty held her peace. When she had reflected 
for a few minutes, she knew that this was 
too grave a matter for fourteen-year-old wits 
to grapple with, and she must tell Uncle Reu- 
ben and Aunt Eunice. 

Tilly Coombs was drawn into a merry game, 
— Ruby Nutting took care of that, — and be- 
fore long her queer little sharp face was act- 
ually dimpling with fun, and her laugh rang 
out with the gayest! Patty Perley looked at 
her, and decided that it was a very queer 
world indeed; for her the joy of Viola Pit- 
kin’s party was done. 

When they were all dressing to depart, Patty 
looked involuntarily at Tilly Coombs’s mittens ; 
in fact, many furtive glances were cast around 
at the red mittens by those who remembered 
the theft of the roast chickens. There were 
many of them, red being the fashionable color 


THE BIRTHDAY PARTY. 


213 


for mittens at Butternut Corner; but appar- 
ently they were all sound and whole. Tommy 
Barker had one mitten with a white thumb, 
which his blind grandmother had knitted on 
in place of a torn thumb, and little Seba Sage 
had but one mitten; but that one was very 
dark red, not the vivid scarlet of the ravel- 
ling. 

Billy Parkhurst whispered to Patty as she 
sat down beside her on the sled, “ Tilly 
Coombs has the ravelled mitten ! She is try- 
ing to cover it with her shawl; it is only a 
little more than half a mitten ! ” 

Patty smothered an exclamation of doubt, 
and then she gazed curiously at Tilly’s hands ; 
but they were tightly, carefully covered by 
her shawl. 

Could it be that after spending all that 
time in the cold barn she had failed to knit 
up her ravelled mitten? Tilly looked as if 
she had been having a good time. Under the 
light of Pelatiah’s lantern her eyes were shin- 
ing, her face rippling with smiles. Patty 
thought with wonder that she had not seen 


214 


THE RAVELLED MITTEN. 


her look so happy — well, certainly not since 
her brother Alf ran away. 

“ I must have grown plump at the party ! ” 
laughed Ruby Nutting. “ One of my mittens 
is too tight around the wrist.” And Patty 
saw Tilly Coombs nervously fold her shawl 
more closely about her mittens. 

Just before her own door was reached, Tilly 
Coombs leaned towards Patty and whispered, 
so that even Anson or Pelatiah should not 
hear, — 

‘ ‘ I didn’t know there were such good times 
in the world ! ” she said, with her face aglow. 
“And Viola Pitkin’s Uncle Nathan ate one 
of my doughnuts ! ” But Patty shrank away 
from her. 


THE MISER'S BOOR-STONE. 


215 


II. 

THE miser’s door-stone. 

Tilly Coombs watched the sled as it went 
crunching and jingling up the hill, and then 
entered her house, with a long sigh that the 
party was over. 

“ I’m getting to have good times ; they treat 
me ’most as if I was other folks,” she said to 
herself happily. She would have liked to tell 
her mother about the good time, but her father 
had come home. She heard his querulous 
voice, and knew that he had been drinking 
just enough to make it unsafe to disturb him ; 
so she crept softly up to her room, — a cold 
and bare nook under the eaves. She pulled off 
her ravelled mitten and gazed at it ruefully. 
“ That was an awful queer thing to do ! ” she 
said to herself aloud. “ And my ! wa’n’t it 
cold in that barn ? But nobody saw me — 


216 


THE RAVELLED MITTEN. 


not a soul ! Nobody will ever know ! The 
worst of it is, if I had been ketched, then 
nobody would ever believe that Alf wasn’t a 
thief. An awful queer thing ! ” For a minute 
or two Tilly was lost in painful and perplex- 
ing reflection. Then she suddenly shook her 
flst fiercely at her small, crooked reflection 
in the cracked piece of looking-glass upon the 
wall. “Tilly Coombs, don’t you never darst 
to think, as long as you live, that anything 
she did was queer ! ” she said in an impres- 
sive whisper that echoed from all the empty 
corners of the dreary little room. And then 
Tilly tucked a ravelled mitten under the ragged 
ticking of her bed, and slept in peace. 

While she slept, in the great farmhouse at 
the top of Butternut Hill they were still de- 
bating whether she should be arrested at once 
for the theft of the spoons, or whether Patty 
should try to influence her to confession and 
the restoration of the property. 

It was Aunt Eunice who suggested the lat- 
ter course. Uncle ’ Reuben believed in stern 
justice. He said that the Coombs family was 


THE MISER'S DOOR-STONE. 


217 


a disgrace to the town; the father was drunken 
and good for nothing, and the son — His 
voice broke there; he had always felt that 
Alf Coombs was to blame for Dave’s running 
away. 

“We never heard anything really bad about 
Alf Coombs until — until he ran away,” An- 
son insisted. Aunt Eunice said she thought 
Mrs. Coombs seemed like a good woman ; and 
Patty tried to defend Tilly, although it was 
difficult to explain her knitting up that rav- 
elled mitten. She said Ruby Nutting would- 
n’t believe anything against Tilly, and you 
couldn’t make her. But Uncle Reuben shook 
his head over that, and said he was afraid 
Ruby Nutting wasn’t very sensible, and 
Ruby’s father seemed to pity bad folks as 
much as good ones, and to take as much com- 
fort doctoring them — without any pay. 

But it was finally decided that Patty should 
tell Tilly of the proof of her guilt that had 
been discovered. If Patty failed to influence 
her, then Aunt Eunice would no longer object 
to her arrest. 


218 


THE RAVELLED MITTEN. 


Patty lay awake a long time that night, 
dreading her mission. She wished she might 
ask Ruby Nutting to help her; but Uncle 
Reuben thought it best that no one sliould 
be told. When she did sleep she dreamed a 
dreadful dream, in which Tilly Coombs was 
being pursued down the long hill, through 
the great snow-drifts, by an army of spoons 
with grotesque faces, their mouths made of 
the initial letter that marked the stolen 
spoons, — O for Oliver, Grandma Barclay’s 
maiden name. They were driving Tilly into 
the mill-pond, which was open as if it were 
summer, in spite of the January drifts, and 
Patty awoke with a start and a cry. But 
bad as was the fantastic dream, Patty said 
to herself that the reality was worse. 

When Pelatiah opened the back door the 
next morning, a fine pair of chickens plucked 
and dressed hung upon the knob. That cir- 
cumstance seemed mysterious. Why should 
a thief who would steal a dozen spoons have 
a weak conscience in the matter of a pair 
of chickens ? Where could Tilly Coombs 


THE MISERY S DOOR-STONE. 


219 


get a pair of chickens? Patty added these 
mysteries to the one about the ravelled mit- 
ten upon which Tilly had knit and knit 
and yet worn it unmended, and felt as be- 
wildered as she did when Anson made her 
listen to something out of the rebus corner 
of the Butternut Weekly Voice. But Uncle 
Reuben still insisted that it was a clear 
case; the thief had restored the chickens in 
order to stifle suspicion about the spoons. 
As to how the thief became possessed of the 
chickens, — well, he “ didn’t think it would 
trouble Coombses to rob hen-roosts.” 

So, as Patty set out to accuse Tilly of the 
theft, the little spark of hope which the 
deepened mystery had aroused in her was 
almost quenched. 

Tilly came to the door, and Patty tried 
to look at her with judicial severity, as she 
had seen Uncle Reuben look at offenders ; 
but she broke down suddenly at sight of 
Tilly’s beaming, friendly face. 

‘‘O Tilly,” she cried, “you will give them 
back, won’t you? It was such a dreadful 


220 


THE RAVELLED MITTEN, 


thing to do ! But no one shall ever know ; 
Uncle Reuben says so, if you will only give 
them back.” 

The warmth and color faded out of Tilly’s 
face until it looked wan and pinched. 

“ It’s no matter about the chickens. You 
needn’t even have given those back. Of 
course it’s always terrible to — to take things ; 
but if you’ll only give back the spoons.” 

“ The spoons 1 ” echoed Tilly ; and there 
seemed to be such genuine bewilderment in 
her tone that Patty felt inclined to believe 
Uncle Reuben’s accusation that she was sly. 
“ I don’t know anything about any spoons.” 

“ Tilly, your mitten caught on the basket 
and was ravelled, and — and I saw you 
knitting it up in the barn.” Patty’s tone 
was rather pitiful than accusing, but Tilly’s 
face flamed angrily. 

“I didn’t s’pose you was one to go peek- 
ing round and spying on folks,” she cried. 
“I guess I’ve got a right to do a little 
knitting anywheres that I’m a mind to, and 
— and you can’t say ’twas a mitten.” 


THE MISERY S DOOR-STONE. 


221 


“ I saw it, Tilly, — a red mitten. This is 
the yarn that was caught on the basket.” 
Patty drew from her pocket the red ravel- 
ling, wound upon a bit of paper. 

“Tarn.'” echoed Tilly, contemptuously 
taking a bit between her thumb and finger. 
“ I call that worsted ! ” 

“ And are your mittens yarn ? ” cried Patty 
eagerly. “Because that would prove” — 

“ I never said they were, ” said Tilly 
quickly, the color deepening in her cheeks. 
“I never said anything about them, and I 
sha’n’t show them to anybody. And I never 
saw your old spoons in all my born days — 
so there ! ” Tilly would have shut the door, 
but Patty prevented her. 

“ O Tilly, I’m afraid you don’t realize. 
Uncle Reuben will send a sheriff to arrest 
you. And the girls have thought so much 
of you — especially Ruby Nutting.” 

“ You needn’t say a word about Aer.” 
Tilly swallowed a lump chokingly. “You 
needn’t tell her, nor anything. She hasn’t got 
anything to do with it. She’s give me all 


222 


THE RAVELLED MITTEN. 


the chance I’ve had to get good times, and 
her father has been awful good to us ; and 
now I suppose they won’t be any more. But 
— but poor folks must expect to be called 
thieves, and took up. The worst is, now 
they’ll be sure Alf broke into that store, and 
he didn’t! no more’n your cousin did! No, 
that isn’t the worst. The worst is that Miss 
Farnham, the milliner, won’t have me now. 
She was going to take me half a day to do 
chores and help her; ’twas an awful good 
chance ! It chirked mother right up to think 
we were going to be so much like folks, and 
now ” — Tilly kept her voice steady, but it 
w’as by a strong effort. 

“ Tilly, it might come right now if you 
would only tell all about it,” said Patty ear- 
nestly. “ It seems as if there were some 
mystery.” 

“ You go ’long home ! ” cried Tilly fiercely, 
and slammed the door upon Patty. Her sharp, 
hard little features were working convul- 
sively, and Patty heard a long sob inside the 
door. 


THE MISER'S DOOR-STONE. 


223 


She went home feeling more strongly than 
ever that there was a mystery, and pleaded 
earnestly for Tilly. Aunt Eunice joined her, 
and promised to go and see Tilly’s mother, 
and talk with her about the matter if Uncle 
Reuben would delay his sterner measures. 

They might not have been able to persuade 
him to do so, — his bitter grief for his son had 
served to harden him against Alf Coombs’s 
relatives, — if nature had not seemed to take 
Tilly’s part and enforced a delay. The heavy 
snowfall was followed by a pouring rain, and 
what they called at Butternut Corner an old- 
fashioned January thaw. Uncle Reuben was 
a mill-owner, and his property was threat- 
ened by the freshet, so he had no time to 
think of Tilly Coombs. 

Aunt Eunice had a touch of her old enemy, 
rheumatism, and could not go down to con- 
fer with Mrs. Coombs ; so the matter re- 
mained unsettled. 

On the very first day when the sun shone 
out Ruby Nutting came up the hill to ask 
Patty to take a walk. It made no difference 


224 


THE BA YELLED MITTEN. 


that they would go over shoe in mud with 
every step. Ruby wouldn’t take no for an 
answer ; that was the way with Ruby ; be- 
sides, she said that this was something very 
particular. When they reached the foot of 
the hill Patty found herself being led into 
the road which bordered the old mill-pond, 
and she shrank back. 

“Yes; we’re going to Miser Jensen’s house, 
but you needn’t be afraid ; he has gone away 
for the winter. There won’t be any more 
clothes-lines or hen-roosts robbed now. And 
that makes me think. O Patty, what did 
your aunt think of those chickens that were 
tied to her door-knob? And what did you 
think of losing your nice roasted ones ? 
But I didn’t mean to tell you that I took 
them until you had seen poor Tramp. Your 
aunt liked Tramp; she will forgive me when 
she knows I took them for him.” 

“ You took them — for Tramp?” repeated 
Patty in bewilderment. “ I heard that Tramp 
Avas mad ! ” 

Tramp was an old dog that had roamed 


THE MISER'S DOOR-STONE. 


225 


the streets of Butternut Corner and Bymport 
for years, making his home for a week or 
two at one place or another, as the fancy 
seized him, generally welcome, for he was a 
favorite. 

“ He had one of his fits, — convulsions, in 
the street at B3^mport ; he has often had them 
at our house, poor fellow ! It seemed as if 
he came there when one was coming on, 
knowing that we would take care of him. 
Some foolish person raised a cry of mad dog, 
and people chased him with pistols and clubs ; 
he ran up here, and they lost track of him. 
That night on your sled Alvan Sage told 
me that he had heard a dog whining as if 
in pain, in the miser’s house; he said no one 
dared to go near, because they thouglit it 
must be the mad dog. That was a week 
after they had driven poor Tramp out of 
Bymport, and I thought of him suffering and 
without food, and I seized the first basket I 
could lay liands on, and pulled out a pair 
of roast chickens. I thought I never should 
get there through the drifts! I borrowed a 


226 


THE RAVELLED MITTEK. 


lantern at Jake Nesmith’s, and it really 
wasn’t far ; but the drifts were so deep ! 
The poor dog’s leg had been hurt by a stone 
or a club so he could hardly move, and he 
was half frozen and starved. Patty, if you 
could have seen him eat your chickens, I 
know you would have thought it better than 
to have them for the party ! I built a fire, 
— luckily there was wood in the cellar, — 
and I’ve been there every day in all the rain 
to take care of him. Papa has been with me ; 
and to-morrow we’re going to send Tramp 
to my Uncle Rufus at Bethel, who is very 
fond of dogs, and will take great care of 
him. We couldn’t take him home, because 
Aunt Estelle is so nervous, and she wouldn’t 
believe he wasn’t mad. I knew you would 
like to see old Tramp.” 

“But — but the ravelled mitten!” faltered 
Patty, who couldn’t as yet “ see through 
things.” 

“How did you know about that?” asked 
Ruby in astonishment. “I caught my mitten 
on your basket in my haste to get the chick- 


THE MISER'S DOOR-STONE. 227 

ens, and the edge was all ravelled off, and — 
the very queerest thing that ever happened! 
— some one knit it on again with yarn. The 
mittens are worsted; see the difference.” Ruby 
held up the mended mitten, with an edge 
of coarse yarn, to Patty’s gaze. “ It was 
done at the party I I think it must have 
been Grandma Pitkin who did it. Perhaps 
it had dropped from my pocket in the dress- 
ing-room, and she saw it. Wasn’t it kind 
of her? I must go and thank her.” 

Patty tried to say, “It wasn’t Grandma 
Pitkin ; it was Tilly Coombs,” • but there was 
a lump in her throat that choked her. And 
it happened that they just then reached a 
turn in the road and saw a girl's figure ahead 
of them. She walked from side to side of 
the road, keeping her eyes on the ground, 
and occasionally prodding into it with a stick 
which she carried. 

“ It’s Tilly Coombs, and she seems to be 
searching for something,” said Ruby. 

Patty darted on ahead, and seized Tilly 
around the neck with both arms. Even then 


228 


THE RAVELLED MITTEN. 


Patty saw how pitifully worn and pale the 
girl had grown. What had been only a little 
comedy to Ruby, pleasant because she had 
so happily relieved the dog’s sufferings, had 
been almost a tragedy to Tilly Coombs. 

“ Tilly, can you ever forgive me ? ” said 
Patty, struggling with a tendency to cry. 
“ I know all about it, — how you knitted the 
mitten to keep Ruby from being found out, 
and how you bore it all and didn’t tell.” 

“ You hain’t been telling Tier ? ” said Tilly 
anxiously. “ I don’t think she knows she 
lost the spoons. I saw that she came down 
this road that night, and I’ve been hunting 
for them. I ain’t going to have a mite of 
trouble come on her ! She’s been different 
to me from what anybody ever was before, 
not looking down on me as if I was the 
dirt under her feet. And her father too ; 
he’s come and come to see mother when he 
knew there wa’n’t a cent to pay him with. 
I have bore a sight,” — Tilly’s strained voice 
threatened to break, — “ but I can bear more. 
I won’t have trouble come to her if I can 


THE MISER'S DOOR-STONE. 


229 


help it. You haint been telling her all about 
it?” 

Ruby came up to them before there was 
time for an answer. 

“Hunting for something, Tilly?” she asked 
easily. “ I’m afraid you won’t find it in all 
this mud.” 

“No — no; I hain’t found them,” stammered 
Tilly, uncertain whether Ruby knew about 
the spoons. “But”— and her face lighted 
with sudden eagerness — “ I’ve found some- 
thing queer; you see if it isn’t queer.” Tilly 
turned back, running before them up to the 
door of the miser’s little house. “No, it isn’t 
the tracks,” she added, as Ruby hurriedly 
explained about the dog, “it’s the door-stone; 
it looks as if it had been moved lately. If 
you’re looking along the ground, as I was, 
you’ll notice it.” 

“Well, what if it has?” asked Ruby won- 
dering, and a little impatient. 

“Somebody might have hidden something 
there,” said Tilly, whose longing to find the 
spoons was evidently desperate. 


230 


THE RAVELLED MITTEN. 


“ Some of the miser’s treasures or his clothes- 
line booty,” cried Ruby gayly; for Miser Jen- 
sen was suspected of petty thieving, and 
Butternut Corner breathed more freely when 
his summer sojourn was over. “ Girls, let’s 
pry the stone up ! ” 

“ I tried to alone, but I couldn’t,” said 
Tilly eagerly, bringing a long stake from the 
tumble-down fence. 

The three girls tried for a long time with 
their united strength. The stone was flat and 
not very heavy, but was unwieldy ; while 
Tramp, let out of the house, barked and ca- 
pered with exitement in spite of his injured 
leg. 

When at last the stone was overturned, 
there was indeed something snugly tucked 
into a hole dug beneath it, — a bundle tied 
up in a bandanna handkerchief. Miser Jensen 
always wore old-fashioned bandanna handker- 
cliiefs. When the girls opened it they found 
it filled, not with spoils of the Butternut 
Corner clothes-lines, but with watches and 
jewellery, most of it marked with the name 


There was, indeed, Something snugly tucked into a Hole. 






THE MISER'S DOOR-STONE. 


231 


of Burton, the Bymport jeweller, whom Dave 
Perlej and Alf Coombs were suspected of 
having robbed. 

Patty burst into tears of joy. 

“It was Miser Jensen who robbed the store! 
Tilly, don’t you see what it means? No one 
can ever say it was the boys again I ” 

Tilly trembled in all her thin little frame, 
but her face was alight with joy. “I know 
where they are ! I can tell now,” she said 
proudly. “Alf wrote to me. They are both 
in my cousin’s store in L ; it is a jew- 

ellery store. It was because Alf liked to see 
watches and things fixed that he was always 
at Burton’s, and so they suspected him. Dave 
didn’t want to be a minister or a farmer, 
that was why he ran away ; but he Avants 
to come home. He says it doesn’t pay to run 
away; and now he can!*” 

The cloud lifted from Butternut Hill ! 
Patty hurried to tell Uncle Reuben and Aunt 
Eunice ; it seemed to her too good to be true. 

They forgot all about the spoons ; even 
Tilly forgot them. And Aunt Eunice said 


232 


THE RAVELLED MITTEN. 


she didn’t care anything about the spoons, 
but she would do everything to make amends 
to Tilly Coombs for the unjust suspicions. 

The spoons were found the very next day. 
Jake Nesmith, the blacksmith, saw the corner 
of the napkin in which they were wrapped 
sticking out of a mud-puddle. Ruby had 
pulled them out of the basket with the chick- 
ens, and dropped them in the snow. 

Alf Coombs is still in his cousin’s store, 
but Dave has come home to Butternut Hill. 
He says he isn’t sure that he shall ever be 
a minister or a farmer ; but he is sure he shall 
never be wild again. The awful suspicion 
that fell upon him cured him of that. Miser 
Jensen was arrested, and confessed the theft ; 
he escaped from prison, but there is no fear 
that he will ever return to Butternut Corner. 
Dr. Nutting wished to send Tilly to the Acad- 
emy with Ruby, — the whole story of the rav- 
elled mitten was told after the spoons were 
found; no one could expect a human girl like 
Patty to keep it, — but Tilly thought she had 
a knack for millinery, and she liked to be in- 


THE MISER'S DOOR-STONE. 


233 


dependent, and Miss Farnham wanted her ; she 
says she is a good business woman, although 
she is only fifteen. 

The doctor always takes off his hat to Tilly 
Coombs. The minister, who is his great friend, 
and hears a good deal about Butternut Corner 
people through him, does so too; and just 
now the young people of the Corner are mak- 
ing preparations for another birthday surprise 
party. They have hired the new Town Hall, 
because the little house at the foot of the 
hill wouldn’t begin to hold Tilly’s troops of 
friends; and everything is to be in the very 
best style that is known to Butternut Cor- 
ner, because they want Tilly to feel that she 
is “ just like other folks.” 








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